3  1210018386068 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  Or  CALIFORNIA 
RIVERSIDE 


Mountain   Blood 


RECENT  FICTION 

THE  MASTER  OF  MAN.    By  Hall  Caine 

TO  LET.     By  John  Galsworthy 

THE   TREMBLING    OF    A    LEAF.      By    W, 

Somerset  Maughan 

THE  HAUNTING.     By  C.  A.  Damson-Scott 

MOUNTAIN  BLOOD.    By  Joseph  Her •gesheimer 

MOON-CALF.    By  Floyd  Dell 

THE  GIRLS.     By  Edna  Ferber 

CROSSING  PICCADILLY  CIRCUS.    By  Ward 

Afuir 

MARGARET'S  MEAD.     By  Jane  Harding 

LATCHKEY  LADIES.    By  Marjorie  Grant 

LONDON:  WILLIAM  HEINEMANN 


Mountain  Blood 


A  Novel 


By 

Joseph   Hergesheimer 


London  :  William  Heinemann 


LONDON  :    WILLIAM   HEINEMANN,    1922 


To 
MY  MOTHER 


PART  I 


THE  fiery  disc  of  the  sun  was  just  lifting  above 
the  shoulder  of  hills  that  held  the  city  of  Stenton 
when  the  Greenstream  stage  rolled  briskly  from  its 
depot,  a  dingy  frame  tavern,  and  commenced  the 
long  journey  to  its  high  destination.  The  tavern 
was  on  the  outskirts  of  town;  beyond,  a  broad, 
level  plain  reached  to  a  shimmering  blue  silhouette 
of  mountains  printed  on  a  silvery  sky ;  and  the  stage 
immediately  left  the  paved  street  for  the  soft,  dusty 
country  road.  Stenton  was  not  yet  awake ;  except 
for  an  occasional  maid  sleepily  removing  the  milk 
from  gleaming  marble  steps,  or  early  workmen 
with  swollen,  sullen  countenances,  the  streets  were 
deserted. 

The  dewy  freshness  of  morning  was  already 
lost  in  the  rapidly  mounting  heat  of  the  June 
day.  Above  the  blackened  willows  that  half  hid 
the  waterworks  an  oily  column  of  smoke  wavered 
upward  in  slow,  thick  coils,  mingling  with  the  acid 
odour  of  ammonia  from  a  neighbouring  ice  manufac- 
turing plant ;  a  locomotive  whistled,  harsh  and  per- 
sistent; the  heat  vibrated  in  visible  fans  above  the 
pavement. 

From  the  vantage  point  of  the  back  porches  of 
Stenton  the  sluggish  maids  could  see  the  Green- 
stream  stage  fast  diminishing.  The  dust  rose  and 

9 


10  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

enveloped  it,  until  it  appeared  to  be  a  ball,  gilded  by 
the  sun,  rolling  over  the  rank  grey-green  plain. 
Finally  it  disappeared  from  the  vision  of  the 
awakening  city. 


II 

IT  was  a  mountain  surrey,  with  a  top  and  rolled 
curtains,  three  rigid  seats,  and  it  was  drawn  by 
ugly,  powerful  horses  in  highly  simplified  harness. 
At  the  rear  a  number  of  mailbags,  already  coated 
with  a  dun  film,  were  securely  strapped. 

The  driver  lounged  forward,  skilfully  picking 
flies  with  his  whip  from  the  horses'  backs.  He  had 
a  smooth  countenance,  deeply  tanned,  and  pale, 
clear  blue  eyes.  At  his  side  sat  a  priest  in  black, 
a  man  past  middle  age,  with  ashen,  embittered 
lips,  and  a  narrowed,  chilling  gaze.  They  were 
silent,  contemplative;  but  from  the  seat  behind 
them  flowed  a  constant,  buoyant,  youthful  chatter. 
A  girl  with  a  shining  mass  of  chestnut  hair  gathered 
loosely  on  a  virgin  neck  was  recounting  the  thrilling 
incidents  of  "  commencement  week  "  for  the  bene- 
fit of  a  heavily-built  young  man  with  a  handsome, 
masklike  countenance.  On  the  last  seat  a  care- 
lessly-garbed male  was  drawing  huge  clouds  of 
smoke  from  a  formidable  cigar.  f% 

Gordon  Makimmon,  the  driver,  did  not  know 
him.  He  had  engaged  and  paid  for  his  seat  the 
night  before,  evading  such  indirect  query  as  Makim- 
mon had  addressed  to  him.  It  was  a  fundamental 
principle  of  Greenstream  conduct  that  the  direct 
question  was  inadmissible;  at  the  same  time,  the 

11 


12  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

inhabitants  of  that  far,  isolated  valley  were,  on  all 
occasions,  coldly  curious  about  such  strangers,  their 
motives  and  complexions  of  mind,  as  reached  their 
self-sufficient  territory.  This  combined  restriction 
and  necessity  produced  a  wily  type  of  local  in- 
quisitor. But  here  Gordon's  diplomacy  had  been 
in  vain,  his  surmising  at  sea.  The  others  were 
intimate  and  familiar  figures: 

Father  Merlier's  advent  into  Greenstream  had 
occurred  a  number  of  years  before.  He  had  arrived 
with  papers  of  introduction  to  one  of  the  few  papist 
families  in  that  rigorously protestant  neighbourhood, 
and  immediately  had  erected  outside  the  village  of 
Greenstream  a  small  mission  school  and  dwelling, 
where  he  addressed  himself  to  the  herculean  task 
of  gaining  converts  to  his  faith.  At  first  he  had 
been  regarded  with  unconcealed  distrust — boys, 
when  the  priest's  back  was  turned,  had  thrown 
stones  at  him ;  the  turbulent  element,  on  more  than 
one  occasion,  had  discussed  the  advisability  of 
"  running  "  him  from  the  community.  But  it  was 
true  of  both  boys  and  men  that,  when  they  had 
confronted  the  beady  black  glitter  of  Merlier's 
unfaltering  gaze,  encountered  the  patent  contempt 
of  his  rigid  lips,  they  had  subsided  into  an  unin- 
telligible mutter,  and  had  been  glad  to  escape. 

He  became  an  habitual  sight,  riding  a  blooded 
mare  through  the  valley,  over  lonely  trails,  and  was 
finally  accepted  as  a  recognized  local  institution. 
His  title  and  exotic  garb,  the  grim  quality  of  his 
manhood,  his  austere  disregard  for  bodily  welfare, 
his  unmistakable  courage — more  than  any  other 
human  quality  extolled  throughout  Greenstream — 
became  a  cause  of  prideful  boasting  in  the  county. 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  13 

Gordon  Makimmon  had  known  Lettice  Hollidew, 
now  speaking  in  little  girlish  rushes  behind  him, 
since  her  first  appearance  in  a  baby  carriage,  nine- 
teen or  twenty  years  back.  He  had  watched  her 
without  particular  interest,  the  daughter  of  the 
richest  man  in  Greenstream,  grow  out  of  sturdy, 
barelegged  childhood  into  the  girl  he  had  now  for 
five  years  been  driving,  in  early  summer  and  fall, 
to  and  from  the  boarding  school  at  Stenton. 

She  was,  he  had  noted,  reserved.  Other  school- 
girls, in  their  passages  from  their  scattered  upland 
homes,  were  eager  to  share  Gordon's  seat  by  the 
whip ;  and,  with  affected  giggling  or  ringing  bursts 
of  merriment,  essayed  to  drive  the  wise,  heedless 
mountain  horses.  But  Lettice  Hollidew  had  always 
shrunk  from  the  prominent  place  on  the  stage ;  there 
was  neither  banter  nor  invitation  in  her  tones  as  she 
greeted  him  at  the  outset  of  their  repeated  trips, 
or  as  she  gravely  thanked  him  at  the  end  of  the  day's 
journey. 

Her  father — he  was  reputed  to  possess  almost 
half  a  million  dollars — was  a  silent  man,  suspicious 
and  wary  in  his  contact  and  dealings  with  the  world ; 
and  it  was  probable  that  those  qualities  had  been 
softened  in  Pompey  Hollidew's  daughter  to  a 
habit  of  diffidence,  to  a  customary,  instinctive  re- 
pression. 

No  such  characteristics  laid  their  restraint  on 
Buckley  Simmons,  her  present  companion.  His 
immobile  face,  with  its  heavy,  good  features  and 
slow-kindling  comprehension,  was  at  all  times  ex- 
pressive of  loud  self-assertion,  insatiable  curiosity, 
facile  confidence;  from  his  clean-shaven  lips  fell 
always  satisfied  comment,  pronouncement,  im- 


14  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

patient  opinion.  If  Hollidew  was  the  richest  man 
in  Greenstream,  Valentine  Simmons  was  a  close 
second.  Indeed,  one  might  be  found  as  wealthy 
as  the  other ;  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  Simmons  hold- 
ings in  real  estate,  scattered  broadcast  over  the 
county,  would  realize  more  than  Hollidew  could 
readily  command — thus  Valentine  Simmons's  son, 
Buckley. 

He  was  elaborately  garbed  in  grey  serge,  relent- 
lessly shaped  to  conform  to  an  exaggerated  passing 
fashion,  a  flaring  china  silk  tie  with  a  broadly  dis- 
played handkerchief  to  match,  yellow-red  shoes  with 
wide  ribbands,  and  a  stiff  claret-coloured  felt  hat. 

Gordon  Makimmon,  with  secret  dissatisfaction, 
compared  himself  with  this  sartorial  model.  Gor- 
don's attire,  purely  serviceable,  had  apparently 
taken  on  a  protective  colouring  from  the  action  of 
time  and  the  elements;  his  shirt  had  faded  from  a 
bright  buff  to  a  nondescript  shade  which  blended 
with  what  had  once  been  light  corduroy  trousers; 
his  heavy  shoes,  treated  only  the  evening  before  to 
a  coat  of  preservative  grease,  were  now  covered  with 
muck ;  and,  pulled  over  his  eyes,  a  shapeless  canvas 
hat  completed  the  list  of  the  visible  items  of  his 
appearance. 

He  swore  moodily  to  himself  as  he  considered  the 
picture  he  must  present  to  the  dapper  youth  and 
immaculate  girl  behind  him.  He  should  have 
remembered  that  Lettice  Hollidew  would  be  return- 
ing from  school  to-day,  and  at  least  provided  an 
emergency  collar.  His  sister  Clare  was  always 
scolding  him  about  his  clothes  .  .  .  but  Clare's 
was  very  gentle  scolding. 

A  species  of  uncomfortable  defiance,  a  studied 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  15 

contempt  for  appearance,  possessed  him :  lie  was  as 
good  any  day  as  Buckley  Sim  ons,  the  clothes  on 
whose  back  had  probably  been  stripped  from  the 
desperate  need  of  some  lean  mountain  inhabitant 
trading  at  the  parental  Simmons's  counter.  The 
carefully  cherished  sense  of  injury  grew  within 
Gordon ;  he  suspected  innuendoes,  allusions  to  his 
garb,  in  the  half -heard  conversation  behind  him; 
he  spoke  to  his  horses  in  hard,  sharp  tones,  and, 
without  reason,  swept  the  whip  across  their  ears. 


Ill 

MEANWHILE,  they  drew  steadily  over  the  plain;  the 
mountains  before  them  gradually  lost  their  aspect 
of  mere  silhouette;  depths  were  discernible;  the 
blue  dissolved  to  green,  to  towering  slopes  dense 
with  foliage.  Directly  before  them  a  dark  shadow 
steadily  grew  darker,  until  it  was  resolved  into  a 
cleft  through  the  range.  They  drew  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  pierced  barrier;  the  road  mounted 
perceptibly;  the  trees  thickened  by  the  wayside. 
A  covey  of  dun  partridge  fluttered  out  of  the 
underbrush. 

The  sun  was  high  in  a  burning  grey  vault  and 
flooded  the  plain  with  colourless  bright  light.  The 
stage  paused  before  entering  the  opening  in  the 
rocky  wall;  the  stranger  in  the  rear  seat  turned  for 
a  comprehensive  last  survey.  Simmering  in  a 
calorific  envelope,  the  distant  roofs  and  stacks 
of  Stenton  were  visible,  isolated  in  the  white  heat 
of  the  pitiless  day. 

Above  the  city  hung  a  smudge,  a  thumbprint 
of  oily  black  smoke,  carrying  the  suggestion  of 
an  intolerable  concentration,  a  focal  point  of  the 
fiery  discomfort.  In  the  foreground  a  buzzard 
wheeled,  inevitable,  depressing. 

With  a  sharp  flourish  of  his  whip  Gordon  urged 

16 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  17 

the  stage  into  the  cold  humidity  of  the  gorge. 
Stenton  and  the  plain  were  lost  as  it  passed  between 
close,  dripping  rocks,  rank  verdure,  masses  of 
gigantic,  paleolithic  fern. 


IV 

THE  dank,  green  smell  hung  in  their  nostrils  after 
they  had  left  the  ravine  for  a  fertile  tableland. 
They  trotted  through  a  village  strung  along  the 
road,  a  village  of  deeply-scrolled  eaves  under  the 
thick  foliage  of  maples,  and  of  an  incredible  number 
of  churches— "  Reformed,"  "Established,"  quali- 
fied Methodist,  uncompromising  Baptist.  They 
were  all  built  of  wood,  and  in  varying  states  of  repair 
that  bore  mute  witness  to  the  unequally  persuasive 
eloquence  of  their  several  pastors. 

Beyond,  the  way  rose  once  more,  sunny  and  dusty 
and  monotonous.  The  priest  was  absorbed,  mut- 
tering unintelligibly  over  a  small,  flexible  volume. 
The  conversation  between  Lettice  Hollidew  and 
Buckley  fell  into  increasing  periods  of  silence.  The 
stranger  lit  a  fresh  cigar,  the  smoke  from  which 
hung  out  back  in  such  clouds  that  the  power  of  the 
stage  might  well  have  been  mistaken  for  steam. 

The  road  grew  steeper  still,  and,  fastening  the 
reins  about  the  whipstock,  Gordon  swung  out  over 
the  wheel  and  walked.  He  was  a  spare  man, 
sinewy  and  upright,  and  past  the  golden  age  of 
youth.  He  lounged  over  the  road  in  a  careless 
manner  that  concealed  his  agile  strength,  his  tireless 
endurance.  This  indolent  carriage  and  his  seem- 
ingly slight  build  had,  on  more  than  one  occasion, 

18 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  19 

been  disastrously  misleading  to  importunate  or 
beery  strangers.  He  could,  and  did,  fight  whenever 
chance  offered,  with  a  cold  passion,  a  destructive 
abandon,  that  had  won  him,  throughout  the  tur- 
bulent confines  of  Greens tream,  a  flattering  measure 
of  peace. 

In  this  manner  his  father,  just  such  another,  had 
fought  before,  him,  and  his  grandfather  before  that. 
Nothing  further  back  was  known  in  Greenstream. 
It  was  well  known  that  the  first  George  Gordon 
MacKimmon — the  Mac  had  been  speedily  debauched 
by  the  slurring  local  speech — had  made  his  way  to 
Virginia  from  Scotland,  upon  the  final  collapse  of 
a  Lost  Cause.  The  instinct  of  the  highlander  had 
led  him  deep  into  the  rugged  ranges,  where  he  had 
lived  to  see  the  town  and  county  of  Greenstream 
crystallize  about  his  log  walls  and  stony  patch. 

There,  finally  breaking  down  the  resistance  of  a 
heroic  constitution,  he  had  succeeded  in  drinking 
himself  to  death.  His  son  had  grown  up  imbued 
with  local  tradition  and  ideas,  and  was  settling 
seriously  to  a  repetition  of  the  elder's  fate,  when  the 
Civil  War  offered  him  a  wide,  recognized  field  for 
the  family  belligerent  spirit.  He  was  improving 
this  chance  to  the  utmost  with  Morley's  Raiders 
when  a  slug  ended  his  activities  in  the  second  year 
of  the  war. 

It  was  characteristic  of  the  Makimmons  that  they 
should  each  have  left  family  in  precarious  cir- 
cumstances. They  were  not,  they  would  contemp- 
tuously assert,  farmers  or  merchants.  When  the 
timber  was  cut  from  the  valley,  the  underbrush 
burned,  and  the  superb  cloth  of  grass  started  that 
had  formed  the  foundation  of  a  number  of  comfort- 


20  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

able   fortunes,    the   Makimmons,    scornful   of   the 
effort,  had  remained  outside  the  profit. 

Such  income  as  they  enjoyed  had  been  obtained 
from  renting  their  acres  to  transient  and  indifferent 
farmers.  In  the  crises  of  life  and  death,  or  under 
the  desire  for  immediate  and  more  liquor,  they  sold 
necessary  slices.  This  continued  until  nothing 
remained  for  the  present  Gordon  Makimmon  but  the 
original  dwelling — now  grotesquely  misshapen  from 
the  addition  of  casual  sheds  and  extensions — and  a 
small  number  of  acres  on  the  outskirts  of  town. 

There  he  lived  with  Clare,  his  sister.  Their 
mother,  the  widow  of  that  Makimmon  whose  dis- 
putatious temper  had  been  dignified  by  the  epitaph 
of  "  heroic  sacrifice,"  had  died  of  a  complicity  of 
patent  medicines  the  winter  before.  An  older 
brother  had  totally  disappeared  from  the  cognizance 
of  Greenstream  during  Gordon's  boyhood;  and  a 
married  sister,  completing  the  tale,  lived  at  the 
opposite  end  of  the  county,  held  close  by  poverty 
and  her  own  large  brood. 

Summer  and  winter  Gordon  Makimmon  drove 
the  stage  between  Greenstream  and  Stenton.  At 
dawn  he  left  Greenstream,  arriving  in  Stenton  at 
the  end  of  day ;  the  following  morning  he  re-departed 
for  Greenstream.  This  mechanical,  monotonous 
routine  satisfied  his  need  without  placing  too  great 
a  strain  on  his  energy;  he  enjoyed  rolling  over  the 
summer  roads  or  in  the  crisp  clear  sunlight  of  winter ; 
he  liked  the  casual  converse  of  the  chance  pas- 
sengers, the  inevitable  deference  to  his  local  know- 
ledge, the  birdlike  chatter  and  flattery  of  the  young 
women.  He  liked,  so  easily,  to  play  oracle  and 
wiseman;  he  liked  the  admiration  called  forth  by 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  21 

a   certain  theatrical  prowess  with  the  reins  and 
whip. 

On  the  occasions  when  he  was  too  drunk  to  drive 
— not  over  often — a  substitute  was  quietly  found 
until  he  recovered,  and  little  was  said.  Gordon 
Makimmon  was  invaluable  in  a  public  charge,  a 
trust — he  had  never  lost  a  penny  of  the  funds  he 
continually  carried  for  deposit  in  the  Stenton  banks ; 
no  insult  had  been  successfully  offered  to  any  daugh- 
ter of  Greenstream  accompanying  him  without 
other  care  in  the  stage. 


THEY  rose  steadily,  crossing  the  roof  of  a  ridge, 
and  descended  abruptly  beyond.  Green  prospects 
opened  before  them — a  broad  valley  was  disclosed, 
with  a  broad,  shallow  stream  dividing  its  meadows ; 
scattered  farmhouses,  orderly,  prosperous,  com- 
manded their  shorn  acres.  A  mailbag  was  detached 
and  left  at  a  crossroad  in  charge  of  two  little  girls, 
primly  important,  smothered  in  identical  starched 
pink  sunbonnets.  The  Greenstream  stage  splashed 
through  the  shallow,  shining  ford;  the  ascent  on 
the  far  side  of  the  valley  imperceptibly  began. 

The  sun  was  almost  at  the  zenith ;  the  shadow  of 
the  stage  fell  short  and  sharp  on  the  dry,  loamy 
road ;  a  brown  film  covered  the  horses  and  vehicle ; 
it  sifted  through  the  apparel  of  the  passengers  and 
coated  their  lips.  The  rise  to  the  roof  of  the  suc- 
ceeding range  seemed  interminable ;  the  road  looped 
fields  blue  with  buckwheat,  groves  of  towering, 
majestic  chestnut,  a  rocky  slope,  where,  by  a  crevice, 
a  swollen  and  sluggish  rattlesnake  dropped  from 
sight. 

At  last,  in  the  valley  beyond,  the  half-way  house, 
dinner,  and  a  change  of  horses  were  reached.  The 
forest  swept  down  in  an  unbroken  tide  to  the  porch 
of  the  isolated  roadside  tavern ;  a  swift  stream  filled 
the  wooden  structure  with  the  ceaseless  murmur  of 

22 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  23 

water.  In  the  dusty  gold  gloom  of  a  spacious 
stable  Gordon  unhitched  his  team.  Outside,  in  a 
wooden  trough,  he  splashed  his  hands  and  face, 
then  entered  the  dining-room. 

A  long  table  was  occupied  by  an  industrious  com- 
pany that  broke  the  absorbed  silence  only  by  explo- 
sive requests  for  particularized  dishes.  Above  the 
table  hovered  the  wife  of  the  proprietor,  constantly 
waving  a  fly  brush — streamers  of  coloured  paper 
fastened  to  a  slender  stick — above  the  heads  of  her 
husband  and  guests. 

Gordon  Makimmon  ate  largely  and  rapidly,  ably 
seconded  by  the  strange  passenger  and  Buckley 
Simmons.  The  priest,  Merlier,  ate  sparingly,  in 
an  absent,  perfunctory  manner.  Lettice  Hollidew, 
at  the  opposite  end  of  the  table,  displayed  the  gen- 
erous but  dainty  appetite  of  girlhood.  The  coat 
to  her  suit,  with  a  piece  of  lace  pinned  about  the 
collar,  and  a  new  flat  leather  bag  with  a  silver 
initial,  hung  from  the  back  of  her  chair. 

They  again  listlessly  took  their  places  in  the  stage. 
Buckley  Simmons  emulated  the  stranger  in  lighting 
a  mahogany-coloured  cigar  with  an  ornamental  band 
which  Buckley  moved  toward  his  lips  before  the 
swiftly  approaching  conflagration.  Gordon  drove 
with  his  mind  pleasantly  vacant,  lulled  by  the  mo- 
notonous miles  of  road  flickering  through  his  vision, 
the  shifting  forms  of  distant  peaks,  virid  vistas, 
trees  and  bushes  near  by,  all  saturated  in  the 
slumbrous  yellow  summer  heat. 

Gradually  the  aspect  of  their  surroundings 
changed,  the  forms  of  the  mountains  grew  bolder, 
streams  raced  whitely  over  broken,  rocky  beds ;  the 
ranks  of  the  forest  closed  up,  only  a  rare  trail  broke 


24  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

the  road.  The  orderly  farmhouses,  the  tilled  fields, 
disappeared;  a  rare  cabin,  roughly  constructed  of 
unbarked  logs,  dominated  a  parched  patch,  cut  from 
the  heart-breaking  tangle  of  the  wild,  a  thread  of 
smoke  creeping  from  a  precarious  chimney  above 
the  far,  unbroken  canopy  of  living  green.  Children 
with  matted  hair,  beady-eyed  like  animals,  in  bag- 
like  slips,  filled  the  doorways;  adults,  gaunt-jawed 
and  apathetic,  straightened  momentarily  from 
their  toil  with  the  stubborn  earth. 

At  the  sharpest  ascent  yet  encountered  Gordon 
again  left  the  stage.  Buckley  Simmons  recalled  a 
short  cut  through  the  wood,  and  noisily  entreated 
Lettice  Hollidew  to  accompany  him. 

"  It's  awfully  pretty,"  he  urged,  "  and  easy;  no 
rocks  to  cut  your  shoes.  Fll  go  ahead  with  a  stick 
to  look  out  for  snakes/' 

She  shuddered  charmingly  at  the  final  item  and 
vowed  she  would  not  go  a  step.  But  he  persisted 
and  in  the  end  persuaded  her.  The  stranger  con- 
tinued unmoved  in  his  place;  Merlier  shifted  not  a 
pound's  weight,  but  sat  with  a  cold,  indifferent  face 
turned  upon  the  straining  horses. 

Gordon  walked  ahead,  whistling  under  his  breath, 
and,  with  a  single  skilful  twist,  he  rolled  a  cigarette 
from  a  muslin  bag  of  tobacco  labelled  Green 
Goose. 

The  short  cut  into  which  Buckley  and  Lettice  Hol- 
lidew disappeared  refound  the  road,  Gordon  knew, 
over  a  mile  above;  and  he  was  surprised,  shortly,  to 
see  the  girl's  white  waist  moving  rapidly  into  the 
open.  She  was  alone,  breathing  in  excited  gasps, 
which  she  struggled  to  subdue.  Her  face,  that  five 
minutes  before  had  been  so  creamily,  placidly  com- 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  25 

posed,  was  now  hotly  red ;  her  eyes  shone  with  angry, 
unshed  tears. 

Gordon's  lips  formed  a  silent  exclamation  .  .  . 
Buckley  evidently  had  made  an  error  in  judgment. 
Lettice  stepped  out  into  the  road,  and,  plainly  un- 
willing to  encounter  the  questioning  eyes  in  the  stage, 
walked  rigidly  beside  Gordon.  Behind  the  obvious 
confusion,  the  hurt  surprise  of  her  countenance,  an 
unexpected,  dormant  quality  had  been  stirred  into 
being.  The  crimson  flood  in  her  cheeks  had  stained 
more  than  her  clear  skin — it  had  coloured  her  gracile 
and  candid  girlhood  so  that  it  would  never  again  be 
pellucid;  into  it  had  been  spilled  some  of  the  in- 
delible dye  of  woman. 

Gordon  Makimmon  gazed  with  newly-awakened 
interest  at  Lettice ;  for  the  first  time  he  thought  of 
her  as  other  than  a  school-girl;  for  the  first  time  he 
discovered  in  her  the  potent,  magnetic,  disturbing 
quality  of  sex.  Buckley  Simmons  had  clumsily 
forced  it  into  consciousness.  A  fleeting,  unformu- 
lated  regret  enveloped  him  in  the  shadow  of  its 
melancholy,  an  intangible,  formless  sorrow  at  the 
swift  passage  of  youth,  the  inevitable  lapse  of  time. 
A  mounting  anger  at  Buckley  possessed  him  .  .  . 
she  had  been  in  his,  Gordon  Makimmon's,  care. 
The  anger  touched  his  pride,  his  self-esteem,  and 
grew  cold,  deliberate :  he  watched  with  a  contracted 
jaw  for  Simmons's  appearance. 

'  Why/'  he  exclaimed,  in  a  lowered  voice,  "  that 
lown  tore  your  pretty  shirtwaist  !" 

"  He  had  no  reason  at  all,"  she  protested;  "  it 
was  just  horrid."  A  little  shiver  ran  over  her. 
"  He  ...  he  held  me  and  kissed  .  .  .  hateful/' 

"  I'll  teach  him  to  keep  his  kissing  where  it's 


26  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

liked/'  Gordon  proclaimed.  His  instinctively 
theatrical  manner  diminished  not  a  jot  the  menace 
of  the  threat. 

"  Oh  !  please,  please  don't  fight/'  She  turned  a 
deeply  concerned  countenance  upon  him.  '  That 
would  hurt  me  very  much  more ' 

"  It  won't  be  a  fight,"  he  reassured  her,  "  only  a 
little  hint,  something  for  Buck  to  think  about.  No 
one  will  know."  He  could  not  resist  adding,  "Most 
people  go  a  good  length  before  fighting  with  me." 

"  I  have  heard  that  you  are  awfully "  she 

hesitated;  then  "  brave." 

"  It  was  '  ugly  '  you  heard,"  he  quickly  supplied 
the  pause.  "  But  that's  not  true;  I  don't  fight  like 
some  men,  just  for  a  good  time.  Why,  in  the  towns 
over  the  West  Virginia  line  they  fight  all  night; 
they'll  fight — kill  each  other — for  two  bits,  or  a 
drink  of  liquor.  .  .  .  There's  Buckley  now, 
coming  in  above." 

Buckley  Simmons  entered  the  road  from  a  narrow 
trail  a  number  of  yards  ahead  of  the  stage.  He 
tramped  heavily,  holding  a  hickory  switch  in  one 
hand,  cutting  savagely  at  the  underbrush.  The 
stage  leisurely  caught  up  to  him  until  the  horses' 
heads  were  opposite  his  thickset  form.  Gordon, 
from  the  other  side  of  the  team,  swung  himself  into 
his  seat.  He  grasped  the  whip,  and,  leaning  out, 
swept  the  heavy  leather  thong  in  a  vicious  circle. 
It  whistled  above  the  horses,  causing  them  to  plunge, 
and  the  lash,  stopped  suddenly,  drew  across  Buckley 
Simmons's  face.  For  an  instant  his  startled  coun- 
tenance was  white,  and  then  it  was  wet,  gleaming 
and  scarlet.  He  pressed  his  hands  to  his  mouth  and 
stumbled  confused  into  the  ditch. 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  27 

Gordon  stopped  the  stage.  Merlier  gave  vent  to 
a  sibilant  exclamation,  and  Lettice  Hollidew  cov- 
ered her  eyes.  The  stranger  sprang  to  the  road 
and  hurried  to  the  injured  man's  side.  Gordon  got 
down  slowly.  ;'  Where  did  it  get  him  ? "  he  inquired, 
with  a  shallow  show  of  concern.  He  regarded  with 
indifferent  eyes  the  gaping  cut  across  Simmons 's 
jaw,  while  the  stranger  was  converting  a  large  linen 
handkerchief  into  a  ready  bandage. 

Buckley,  in  stammering,  shocked  rage,  began  to 
curse  Gordon's  clumsiness,  and,  in  his  excitement, 
the  wound  bled  more  redly.  "  You  will  have  to 
keep  quiet/'  he  was  told,  "  for  this  afternoon 
anyhow." 

'''  I'm  not  a  dam  blind  bat,"  Gordon  informed 
his  victim  in  a  rapid  undertone;  "my  eyes  are 
sharper  than  usual  to-day."  Above  the  stained 
bandage  Simmons 's  gaze  was  blankly  enraged. 
'  That  won't  danger  you  none,"  Gordon  continued, 
in  louder,  apparently  unstudied  tones;  "but  you 
can't  kiss  the  girls  for  a  couple  of  weeks." 

Buckley  Simmons  was  assisted  into  the  rear  seat ; 
Lettice  sat  alone,  her  face  hidden  by  the  flowery 
rim  of  her  hat;  Merlier  was  silent,  indifferent,  bland. 
The  way  grew  increasingly  wilder,  and  climbed  and 
climbed;  at  their  back  dipped  and  spread  mile  upon 
mile  of  unbroken  hemlock;  the  minute  clearings,  the 
solitary  cabins,  were  lost  in  the  still  expanse  of  tree 
tops;  the  mountain  towered  blue,  abrupt,  before 
them.  The  stranger  consulted  a  small  map. 
"  This  is  Buck  Mountain,"  he  announced  rather  than 
queried;  "  Greenstream  Village  is  beyond,  west 
from  here,  with  the  valley  running  north  and  south." 

'  You   have  got  us   laid  out   right,"   Gordon 


28  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

assented;  "this  all's  not  new  to  you/'  It  was  as 
close  to  the  direct  question  as  Gordon  Makimmon 
could  bring  himself.  And,  in  the  sequel,  it  proved 
the  wisdom  of  his  creed;  for,  obviously,  the  other 
avoided  the  implied  query.  "  The  Government 
prints  a  good  map,"  he  remarked,  and  turned  his 
shoulder  squarely  upon  any  prolongation  of  the 
conversation. 

They  were  now  at  the  summit  of  Buck  Mountain, 
but  dense  juniper  thickets  hid  from  them  any  ex- 
tended view.  After  a  turn,  over  the  washed,  rocky 
road,  the  Greenstream  Valley  lay  outspread  below. 

The  sun  was  lowering,  and  the  shadow  of  the 
western  range  swept  down  the  great  sombre  wooded 
wall  towering  against  an  illimitable  vault  of  rosy 
light ;  the  lengthening  shadows  of  the  groves  of  trees 
on  the  lower  slope  fell  into  the  dark,  cool  emerald 
cleft.  It  was  scarcely  three  fields  across  the  shorn 
cultivated  space  to  the  opposite  precipitous  barrier ; 
between,  the  valley  ran  narrow  and  rich  into  a  faint, 
broken  haze  of  peaks  thinly  blue  on  either  hand. 
And,  held  in  the  still  green  heart  of  that  withdrawn 
hidden  space,  the  village  lay  along  its  white  high- 
way. 

The  stage  dropped  with  short,  sharp  rushes  down 
the  winding  road;  the  houses  lost  the  toy -like 
aspect  of  distance ;  cowbells  clashed  faintly ;  a  dog's 
bark  quivered,  suspended  in  hushed  space.  The 
stage  passed  the  first  scattered  houses,  and  was 
speedily  in  the  village:  each  dwelling  had,  behind  a 
white  picket  fence,  a  strip  of  sod  and  a  tangle  of 
simple,  gay  flowers — scarlet,  white,  purple,  and  yel- 
low, now  coated  with  a  fine,  chalky  summer  dust. 
The  dwellings  were,  for  the  most  part,  frame,  with  a 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  29 

rare  structure  of  brick  under  mansard  slates  green 
with  moss.  The  back  yards  were  fenced  from  the 
fields,  on  which  hay  had  been  cut  and  stood  in  high 
ricks,  now  casting  long  mauve  shadows  over  the 
close,  brilliant  green.  The  stage  passed  the  white 
board  structure  of  the  Methodist  Church  and 
stopped  before  the  shallow  portico  of  the  post- 
office. 


VI 

A  SMALL,  familiar  group  awaited  the  arrival  of 
the  mail;  and  from  it  several  figures  detached 
themselves.  The  postmaster  stepped  forward,  and 
assisted  Gordon  in  unfastening  the  mailbags; 
a  clerk  from  Valentine  Simmons's  store,  in  shirt- 
sleeves elaborately  restrained  by  pink  bowed 
elastics,  inquired  for  a  package  by  express;  and 
Pompey  Hollidew  pushed  impatiently  forward, 
apparently  anxious  for  a  speedy  view  of  his 
daughter.  This  laudable  assumption  was,  however, 
immediately  upset  by  the  absent  nod  he  bestowed 
upon  Lettice,  and  the  evident  interest  and  relief  with 
which  he  turned  to  the  stranger  descending  from  the 
stage. 

"Mr.  Hollidew  ?"  the  latter  inquired,  with  ill- 
concealed  surprise. 

Pompey  Hollidew,  the  richest  man  in  Green- 
stream,  wore — as  was  customary  with  him — a 
crumpled  yellow  shirt,  open  at  his  stringy  throat, 
and  innocent  of  tie;  his  trousers,  one  time  lavender, 
had  faded  to  a  repulsive,  colourless  hue,  and  hung 
frayed  about  cheap  heavy  shoes,  fastened  by  copper 
rivets.  An  ancient  cutaway  of  broadcloth,  spotted 
and  greenish,  with  an  incomplete  mustering  of 
buttons,  drooped  about  his  heavy,  bowed  shoulders; 
and  a  weather-beaten  derby,  seemingly  unbrushed 
for  countless  grimy  years,  completed  his  forlorn 
garb. 

30 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  31 

His  face  was  long,  with  vertical  pallid  folds 
gathered  loosely  into  a  chin  frosted  with  unkempt 
silver;  his  mouth  was  lipless,  close,  shadowed  by  an 
overhanging,  swollen  nose;  and,  from  beneath  deep, 
troubled  brows  pale  blue  eyes  set  close  together 
regarded  life  sceptically,  intently,  with  appalling 
avidity,  veiled  yet  discernible. 

He  disappeared,  clutching  the  stranger's  sleeve, 
with  an  effort  at  geniality.  Simmons 's  clerk  rue- 
fully tested  the  weight  of  a  small,  heavily  nailed 
box. 

Lettice  Hollidew  slowly  assembled  her  travelling 
effects.  It  was  evident  that  she  wished  to  say  some- 
thing to  Gordon,  for  she  lingered,  patently  playing 
with  her  gloves,  directing  at  him  bright,  nervous 
glances  from  under  the  straw  brim  of  her  hat.  But 
she  was  forced  to  depart  in  silence,  for  Buckley 
Simmons,  in  reply  to  the  queries  about  the  cause  of 
his  accident,  launched  upon  a  loud,  angry  ex- 
planation of  the  obvious  aspect  of  the  incident. 
'  The  clumsy  yap  !"  he  pointedly  exclaimed. 

Gordon  entered  the  group  of  which  Buckley  was 
the  hub.  "  It  was  too  bad  to  spoil  Buck  for  the 
girls,"  he  pronounced  coolly;  "but  he'll  be  after 
them  again  in  a  couple  of  weeks." 

He  gazed  with  level  disdain  into  the  tempest 
gathering  in  Simmons's  eyes  above  the  dark,  spotted 
handkerchief.  He  paused,  deliberately  insolent, 
challenging  a  rejoinder,  until,  none  breaking  the 
strained  silence,  he  swung  about,  and,  at  the  horses' 
heads,  led  them  to  their  stabling  at  Petennan's 
Hotel.  He  passed  the  unpainted  wooden  front  of 
the  office  of  the  Greenstream  Bugle ;  the  house  of 
Senator  Themeny  in  its  lindens  on  a  spreading  lawn; 


32  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

on  the  opposite  side  the  mellow  brick  face  of  the 
Courthouse  under  towering  poplars,  and  Valentine 
Simmons's  store. 

Gordon  stopped  at  the  latter  on  his  way  home. 
It  was  a  long,  shedlike  structure  with  a  false  fa$ade ; 
before  it,  elevated  a  man's  height  from  the  road, 
was  the  broad  platform  where  the  mountain  wagons 
unloaded  their  merchandise;  on  the  side  facing  the 
Courthouse  ran  a  wooden  hitching  rail.  Inside,  on 
the  left,  Simmons's  private  office  was  shut  in  glass 
from  the  main  floor  of  the  store;  long  counters  led 
back  into  a  semi- obscurity,  where  a  clerk  was 
lighting  a  row  of  swinging  kerosene  lamps. 

"  Chalk  them  up,  Sampson,"  Gordon  carelessly 
told  the  clerk  who  wrapped  up  his  purchases. 
"  How  much  are  those  ?"  he  added,  indicating  a  pair 
of  women's  low  white  shoes. 

"  Four.  They're  real  buck,  and  a  topnotch 
article.  Nothing  better  comes." 

Gordon  turned  them  over  in  his  hand ;  they  would, 
he  thought,  just  fit  Clare;  she  liked  pretty  articles  of 
attire ;  she  had  not  been  so  well  lately.  Clare  was  a 
faithful  sister.  "  Just  add  them  to  the  bundle,"  he 
directed  in  a  lordly  manner. 

The  clerk  hesitated,  and  glanced  toward  the 
private*  office,  where  Simmons's  head  could  be  seen, 
pinkly  bald.  "  Do  you  think  you'd  better, 
Gordon  ?"  he  asked;  "  the  boss  has  been  crabbed 
lately  about  some  of  the  old  accounts,  and  yours 
has  waited  as  long  as  any.  I  wouldn't  get  nothing 
to  catch  his  eye^ ': 

"  Add  the  shoes  to  my  bundle,"  Gordon  repeated 
with  a  narrowing  gaze;  "  I  always  ask  for  the  advice 
I  need." 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  33 

Outside  he  endeavoured  to  recall  when  he  had  last 
paid  anything  on  his  account  at  Simmons's  store. 
This  was  the  last  week  in  June  .  .  .  had  he  paid 
any  in  April  ?  in  November  ?  He  was  not  able  to 
remember  the  occasion  of  his  last  settlement.  He 
must  attend  to  that;  he  had  other  obligations,  too, 
small  but  long  overdue.  He  cursed  the  fluid  quality 
of  his  wage,  for  ever  flowing  through  his  fingers. 
He  must  apportion  his  expenditures  more  carefully, 
or,  better  yet,  give  all  his  money  to  Clare ;  the  high- 
power  rifle  he  had  purchased  in  Stenton  the  year 
before  had  crippled  their  resources;  his  last  Christ- 
mas present  to  Clare  had  been  a  heavy  drain ;  he  had 
not  yet  recovered  from  the  generous  funeral  he  had 
given  their  mother. 

He  was  unaccustomed  to  such  considerations. 
They  interfered  with  the  large  view  he  held  of  him- 
self, of  his  importance,  his  deserts ;  they  limited  his 
necessity  for  a  natural  indifference  to  penny  matters ; 
and  he  dismissed  them  with  an  uneasy  movement  of 
his  shoulders. 

He  passed  the  discoloured  plaster  bulk  of  the 
Presbyterian  Church,  the  drug  store  and  dwelling  of 
Dr.  Pelliter,  and  was  on  the  outskirts  of  the  village. 
The  shadow  of  the  western  range  had  now  slipped 
across  the  valley  and  nearly  climbed  the  opposite 
wall;  lavender  scarfs  of  mist  veiled  the  far,  jumbled 
peaks  in  the  darkling  rift;  slim,  swaying  columns 
of  smoke  from  the  clustered  chimneys  of  Green- 
stream  towered  dizzily  through  the  shaded  air  to 
where,  high  above,  they  were  transformed  to  gold 
by  the  last  up-flung  rays  of  the  sun. 


VII 

A  SMOOTH  conical  hill  rose  sharply  to  the  left, 
momentarily  shutting  out  the  valley;  and  beyond, 
at  the  foot  of  a  steep  declivity,  stood  the  Makimmon 
dwelling.  It  had  originally  been  a  four-square 
log  house,  but  the  logs  had  been  covered  by  boards, 
and  to  its  present  irregular  length,  one  room  in 
width,  had  been  added  an  uneven  roofed  porch 
broadside  on  a  narrow  lip  of  sod  by  a  wide,  shallow 
stream.  An  indifferent  stand  of  corn  held  precari- 
ously to  the  sharp  slope  from  the  public  road;  an 
unkempt  cow  grazed  the  dank  sod  by  a  primitive 
well  sweep ;  a  heap  of  tin  cans,  bright  or  rusted,  their 
fading  paper  labels  loose  and  littering  the  grass,  had 
been  untidily  accumulated  at  a  back  door. 

Gordon  passed  about  the  end  of  his  dwelling  to 
the  side  that  faced  the  water.  A  wave  of  hot  air,  a 
heavy,  greasy  odour  and  the  sputtering  of  boiling 
fat,  swept  out  from  the  kitchen.  He  filled  a  tin 
basin  on  the  porch  from  a  convenient  bucket  of 
water,  and  made  a  hasty  toilet. 

Clare  paused  at  the  door,  a  long-handled  spoon 
in  her  attenuated  grasp;  she  was  an  emaciated 
woman  of  thirty,  with  prominent  cheek  bones,  a 
thin,  sensitive  nose,  and  a  colourless  mouth  set  in  a 
harsh  line  by  excessive  physical  suffering.  There 
was  about  her,  in  spite  of  her  gaunt  features  and 

34 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  35 

narrow,  stooping  frame,  something  appealingly 
simple,  girlish.  A  blue  ribband  made  a  gay  note  in 
her  faded,  scant  hair;  she  had  pinned  a  piece  of 
draggled  colour  about  her  throat.  "  I've  been 
looking  for  you  the  half  hour,"  she  said  querulously; 
"  draw  up  t'  the  table." 

"  I  stopped  at  Simmons's,  and  brought  you  a 
pretty,  too;  it's  in  the  bundle." 

"  Gordon  !"  she  exclaimed,  as  he  unwrapped  the 
shoes,  "  they  are  elegant !  Had  you  ought  to  have 
got  them  ?  We  need  so  much — mosquito  bar,  the 
flies  are  terrible  wearing,  the  roof's  crying  for  tin, 
and " 

"  You're  as  bad  as  Sampson,"  he  interrupted  her, 
almost  shortly;  "  we've  got  to  have  pleasures  as 
well  as  profits.  And,  too,"  he  directed,  "  don't  put 
those  shoes  away  like  you  did  that  watered  silk 
shawl  I  got  you  in  Stenton.  Wear  them  .  .  . 
to-night." 

"  Oh,  no  !"  she  cried,  "  not  just  setting  around; 
they'll  get  smudged.  Not  to-night,  Gordon ;  maybe 
to-morrow;  or  when  I  go  to  church." 

"  To-night,"  he  repeated  inexorably. 

A  bare  stained  table  with  spreading  legs  pinned 
through  the  oak  board  was  ranged  against  a  bench 
on  the  kitchen  wall,  where,  in  the  watery  light  of  a 
small  glass  lamp,  Gordon  and  Clare  Makimmon  ate 
their  supper  of  flat,  dark,  salt-raised  bread,  strips  of 
bacon  and  dripping  greens,  and  swimming,  purplish 
preserves. 

After  supper  they  sat  on  the  narrow  porch,  facing 
the  dark,  whispering  stream,  the  night  pouring  into 
the  deep,  still  valley.  A  cold  air  rose  from  the 
surface  of  the  water,  and  Clare  wrapped  a  worn 


36 

piece  of  blanket  about  her  shoulders.  At  frequent 
intervals  she  gazed  with  palpable  delight  at  her  feet, 
shod  in  the  "  real  buck."  A  deep,  melancholy 
chorus  of  frogs  rose  from  the  creek,  mingling  with 
the  high,  metallic  shrilling  of  crickets,  the  reiterated 
calling  of  whippoorwills  from  a  thicket  of  pines. 

Gordon  Makimmon  settled  into  a  waking  som- 
nolence, lulled  by  the  familiar,  profound,  withdrawn 
repose  of  the  valley.  He  could  distinguish  Clare's 
form  weaving  back  and  forth  in  a  low  rocker;  the 
moonless  summer  night  embraced,  hid,  all;  there 
were  no  lights  in  the  house  at  his  back,  no  lights 
visible  in  the  village  beyond ;  only  the  impenetrable 
blackness  of  the  opposite  range  and  the  abrupt  band 
of  stars. 

Suddenly  Clare's  even  breathing,  the  tracking 
sound  of  the  chair,  ceased;  she  drew  two  or  three 
sharp,  gasping  inspirations.  Gordon,  instantly 
alert,  rose  and  stood  over  her.  "  Is  it  bad  to-night 
again  ?"  he  asked  solicitously;  "  shall  I  get  you  the 
ginger  water  ?" 

"  None  ...  in  the  house,"  she  articulated 
laboriously;  "pretty  .  .  .  bad. 

"  No,  don't  leave  me;  just  set;  I'll  be  better  in  a 
spell."  He  fetched  her  a  glass  of  water,  from 
which  she  gulped  spasmodically,  clutching  his 
wrist  with  cold,  wet  fingers.  Then  the  tension 
relaxed,  her  breathing  grew  more  normal.  "  It's 
by  now,"  she  proclaimed  unsteadily. 

"  I'm  going  back  the  road  for  a  little  ginger,"  he 
told  her  from  the  edge  of  the  porch;  "we'd  best 
have  the  bottle  filled." 

The  drug  store  was  dark,  closed  for  the  night,  and 
Gordon  continued  to  Simmons 's  store.  The  row  of 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  37 

swinging  kerosene  lamps  cast  a  thick  yellow  radiance 
over  the  long  counters,  the  variously  laden  shelves. 
The  store  was  filled  with  the  odour  of  coffee,  the 
penetrating  smell  of  print  muslins. 

"  Mr.  Simmons  wants  you  a  minute  in  the  office," 
the  clerk  responded  indirectly  to  his  request  for 
ginger.  Gordon  instinctively  masked  a  gathering 
premonition  of  trouble.  "Fill  her  up  the  while," 
he  demanded,  pushing  forward  the  empty  bottle. 

Valentine  Simmons  was  a  small  man  with  a 
pinkly  bald  head  ornamented  with  fluffs  of  white 
hair  like  cotton-wool  above  his  ears,  and  precise, 
shaven  lips  for  ever  awry  in  the  pronouncing  of 
rallying  or  benevolent  sentences;  these,  with 
appropriate  religious  sentiments,  formed  nine- 
tenths  of  his  discourse,  through  which  the  rare 
words  that  revealed  his  purposes,  his  desires,  flashed 
like  slender  and  ruthless  knives. 

He  was  bending  over  a  tall,  narrow  ledger  when 
Gordon  entered  the  office ;  but  he  immediately  closed 
the  book  and  swung  about  in  his  chair.  The  small 
enclosure  was  hot  and  filled  with  the  odour  of 
scorching  metal,  the  buzzing  of  a  large,  blunder- 
ing fly. 

"  Ah  !"  Valentine  Simmons  exclaimed  pleasantly; 
"  our  link  with  the  outer  world,  our  faithful  messen- 
ger. ...  I  wanted  to  see  you:  ah,  yes."  He 
turned  over  the  pages  of  a  second,  heavier  ledger 
at  his  hand.  "  Here  it  is — Gordon  Makimmon, 
good  Scotch  Presbyterian  name.  Five  hundred  and 
thirty  dollars,"  he  said  suddenly,  unexpectedly. 

Gordon  was  unable  to  credit  his  senses,  the  fact 
that  this  was  the  sum  of  his  indebtedness ;  it  was  an 
absurd  mistake,  and  he  said  so. 


38  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

"Everything  listed  against  its  date,"  the  other 
returned  imperturbably,  "  down  to  a  pair  of  white 
buck  shoes  for  a  lady  to-day — a  generous  present 
for  some  enslaver." 

"  My  sister,"  Gordon  muttered  ineptly.  Five 
hundred  and  thirty  dollars,  he  repeated  incredu- 
lously to  himself.  Five  hundred.  ...  "  How 
long  has  it  been  standing  ?"  he  asked. 

The  other  consulted  the  book.  "  Two  years,  a 
month  and  four  days,"  he  returned  exactly. 

"  But  no  notice  was  served  on  me;  nothing  was 
said  about  my  bill." 

"  Ah,  we  don't  like  to  annoy  old  friends;  just  a 
little  word  at  necessary  intervals." 

Old  rumours,  stories,  came  to  Gordon's  memory 
in  regard  to  the  long  credit  extended  by  Simmons  to 
"  old  friends,"  the  absence  of  any  rendered  ac- 
counts ;  and,  in  that  connection,  the  thought  of  the 
number  of  homesteads  throughout  the  county  that 
had  come,  through  forced  sales,  into  the  store- 
keeper's hands.  The  circumstantial  details  of  these 
events  had  been  bitten  by  impassioned  oaths  into 
his  mind,  together  with  the  memory  of  the  dreary 
ruin  that  had  settled  upon  the  evicted. 

"  I  can  give  you  something  day  after  to-morrow, 
when  I  am  paid." 

"Entirely  satisfactory;  three  hundred — no,  for 
you  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  will  be  sufficient ; 
the  rest  another  time  .  .  .  whenever  you  are  able." 

"  I  get  two  dollars  and  fifty  cents  a  day,"  Gordon 
reminded  him,  with  a  dry  and  bitter  humour,  "  and 
I  have  a  month's  pay  coming." 

Valentine  Simmons  had  not,  apparently,  heard 
him.  "  Two  hundred  and  fifty  only,"  he  repeated, 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  39 

"we  always  like  to  accommodate  old  friends; 
especially  Presbyterian  friends." 

"  I  can  give  you  fifty  dollars,"  Gordon  told  him, 
at  once  loud  and  conciliatory;  wondering,  at  the 
same  time,  how,  if  he  did,  Clare  and  himself  would 
manage.  He  had  to  pay  for  his  board  in  Stenton; 
the  doctor  for  Clare  had  to  be  met — fifty  cents  in 
hand  a  visit,  or  the  visits  ceased. 

"  Have  your  little  joke,  then  get  out  that  hidden 
stocking,  pry  up  that  particular  fire  brick  .  .  .  only 
two  hundred  and  fifty  now  .  .  .  but — now." 

A  hopeless  feeling  of  impotence  enveloped 
Gordon;  the  small,  dry  man  before  him  with  the 
pink,  bald  head  shining  in  the  lamplight,  the  set 
grin,  was  as  remote  from  any  appeal  as  an  insensate 
figure  cast  in  metal,  a  painted  iron  man  in  neat 
grey  alpaca,  a  stiff  white  shirt  with  a  small  blue 
button  and  an  exact,  prim  muslin  bow. 

Still,  "  I'll  give  you  fifty,  and  thirty  the  next 
month.  Why,  damn  it,  I'll  pay  you  off  in  the  year. 
I'm  not  going  to  run  away.  I  have  steady  work ; 
you  know  what  I  am  getting;  you're  safe." 

"  But  " — Valentine  Simmons  lifted  a  hand  in  a 
round,  glistening  cuff — "  is  anything  certain  in  this 
human  vale  ?  Is  anything  secure  that  might  hang 
on  the  swing  of  a  ...  whip  ?" 

With  an  unaccustomed,  violent  effort  of  will 
Gordon  Makimmon  suppressed  his  angry  concern  at 
the  other's  covert  allusion :  outside  his  occupation  as 
stage  driver  he  was  totally  without  resources,  with- 
out the  ability  to  pay  for  a  bag  of  Green  Goose 
tobacco.  The  Makimmons  had  never  been  thrifty 
...  in  the  beginning  they  had  let  their  wide  share 
of  valley  holding  grow  deep  in  thicket,  where  they 


40  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

might  hunt  the  deer,  their  streams  course  through 
a  woven  wild  where  pheasant  might  feed  and  fall 
to  their  accurate  guns. 

"  Two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,"  Valentine 
Simmons  repeated  pleasantly. 

"  I  haven't  got  it,  and  can't  get  it,  all  at  once," 
Gordon  reiterated  in  a  conciliatory  manner.  Then 
his  straining,  chafing  pride,  his  assaulted  self- 
esteem,  overflowed  a  little  his  caution.  "  And  you 
know  it,"  he  declared  in  a  loud,  ugly  voice;  "  you 
know  the  size  of  every  pocketbook  in  Greenstream ; 
I'll  bet,  by  God,  you  and  old  man  Hollidew  know 
personal  every  copper  Indian  on  the  pennies  of  the 
County." 

Valentine  Simmons  smiled  at  this  conception. 
Gordon  regarded  him  with  hopeless,  growing  anger: 
Why,  the  old  screw  took  that  for  a  compliment ! 

"  This  is  Wednesday,"  the  storekeeper  pro- 
nounced; "  say,  by  Saturday  .  .  .  the  sum  I 
mentioned." 

"  It  can't  be  done."  The  last  vestiges  of 
Gordon's  control  were  fast  melting  in  the  heat  of 
his  passion.  Simmons  turned  to  the  narrow  ledger, 
picking  up  a  pen.  '  When  you  bought,"  he  re- 
marked precisely,  over  his  shoulders,  "  the  white 
shoes  and  ammunition  and  silk  fishing  lines — didn't 
you  intend  to  pay  for  them  ?" 

'  Yes,  I  did,  and  will.  And  when  you  said, 
'  Gordon,  help  yourself,  load  up,  try  those  flies  ;' 
and  '  Never  mind  the  bill  now,  some  other  time,  old 
friends  pay  when  they  please,'  didn't  you  know  I 
was  getting  in  over  my  head  ?  didn't  you  encourage 
it  ...  so  you  could  get  judgment  on  me  ?  sell  me 
out  ?  Though  what  you  settled  on  me  for,  what  you 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  41 

see  in  my  ramshackle  house  and  used-up  ground,  is 
over  me." 

Simmons  flashed  a  momentary  crafty  glance  at 
the  other.  "  Never  overlook  a  location  on  good 
water,"  he  advised. 

Gordon  Makimmon  stood  speechless,  trembling 
with  rage.  For  a  moment  Simmons's  pen,  scratch- 
ing over  the  page,  made  the  only  sound  in  the  small 
enclosure;  then,  "  The  provident  man,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  is  always  made  a  target  for  the  abuse  of 
the — the  thoughtless.  But  he  usually  comes  to 
the  assistance  of  his  unfortunate  brother.  You 
might  arrange  a  loan/' 

"  Why,  so  I  might,"  Gordon  assented  in  a  thick 
voice;  "  I  could  get  it  from  your  provident  friend, 
Hollidew — three  hundred  dollars,  say,  at  hell's  per 
cent ;  a  little  lien  on  my  property.  '  Never  overlook 
a  situation  on  good  water.' 

"  By  God  !"  he  exclaimed,  suddenly  prescient, 
"  but  I've  done  for  myself." 

And  he  thought  of  Clare,  of  Clare  fighting 
eternally  that  sharp  pain  in  her  side,  her  face  now 
drawn  and  glistening  with  the  sweat  of  suffering, 
now  girlishly  gay.  He  thought  of  her  fragile  hands, 
so  impotent  to  cope  with  the  bitter  poverty  of  the 
mountains.  What,  with  their  home,  her  place  of 
retreat  and  security,  gone,  and — it  now  appeared 
more  than  probable — his  occupation  vanished, 
w^ould  she  do  ? 

"  I've  done  for  myself,  for  her,"  he  repeated,  sub- 
consciously aloud,  in  a  harsh  whisper.  He  stood 
rigid,  unseeing;  a  pulse  beat  visibly  in  the  brown 
throat  by  the  collarless  and  faded  shirt.  Simmons 
regarded  him  with  a  covert  gaze ;  then,  catching  the 


42  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

attention  of  the  clerk  in  the  store  outside,  beckoned 
slightly  with  his  head.  The  clerk  approached, 
vigorously  brushing  the  counters  with  a  turkey  wing. 

Gordon  Makimmon's  gaze  concentrated  on  the 
storekeeper.  "  You're  almost  an  old  man,"  he  said, 
in  a  slow,  unnatural  voice;  "  you  have  been  robbing 
men  and  women  of  their  homes  for  a  great  many 
years,  and  you  are  still  alive.  It's  surprising  that 
some  one  has  not  killed  you." 

'  I  have  been  shot  at,"  Valentine  Simmons  re- 
plied ;  "  behind  my  back.  The  men  who  fail  are  like 
that  as  a  rule." 

"I'm  not  like  that,"  Gordon  informed  him;  "it's 
pretty  well  known  that  I  stand  square  in  front  of  the 
man  I'm  after.  Don't  you  think,  this  time,  you 
have  made  a  little  mistake  ?  Hadn't  I  better  give 
you  that  fifty,  and  something  more  later  ?" 

Valentine  Simmons  rose  from  his  chair  and 
turned,  facing  Gordon.  His  muslin  bow  had 
slipped  awry  on  the  polished,  immaculate  bosom 
of  his  shirt,  and  it  gave  him  a  slightly  ridiculous, 
birdlike  expression.  He  gazed  coldly,  with  his  thin 
lips  firm  and  hands  still,  into  the  other's  threatening, 
virulent  countenance.  "  Two  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars,"  he  insisted. 

The  thought  of  Clare,  betrayed,  persisted  in 
Gordon's  mind,  battling  with  his  surging  temper,  his 
unreasoning  resentment.  Valentine  Simmons  stood 
upright,  still,  against  the  lamplight.  It  was  plain 
that  he  was  not  to  be  intimidated.  An  overwhelm- 
ing wave  of  misery,  a  dim  realization  of  the  disas- 
trous possibilities  of  his  folly,  inundated  Gordon, 
drowning  all  other  considerations.  He  turned  and 
walked  abruptly  from  the  office  into  the  store. 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  43 

There  the  clerk  placed  on  the  counter  the  bottle, 
filled  and  wrapped.  In  a  petty  gust  of  rage,  like  a 
jet  of  steam  escaping  from  a  defective  boiler,  he 
swept  the  bottle  to  the  floor,  where  he  ground  the 
splintering  fragments  of  glass,  the  torn  and  stained 
paper,  into  an  untidy  blot. 


VIII 

OUTSIDE,  the  village,  the  Greenstream  Valley, 
was  folded  in  still,  velvety  dark.  He  crossed  the 
street  and  sat  on  one  of  the  iron  benches  placed 
under  the  trees  on  the  Court-house  lawn.  He  could 
see  a  dull  reddish  light  shining  through  the  dusty 
window  of  the  Bugle  office.  Shining  like  that, 
through  his  egotistical  pride,  the  facts  of  his  failure 
and  impotence  tormented  him.  It  hurt  him  the 
more  that  he  had  been,  simply,  diddled,  no  better 
than  a  child  in  Simmons's  astute,  practised  hands. 
The  latter's  rascality  was  patent,  but  Simmons 
could  not  have  been  successful  unabetted  by  his 
own  blind  negligence.  The  catastrophe  that  had 
overtaken  him  rankled  in  his  most  vulnerable  spot 
— his  self-esteem. 

He  suffered  inarticulately,  an  indistinguishable 
shape  in  the  soft  summer  gloom;  about  his  feet,  in 
the  lush  grass,  the  greenish-gold  sparks  of  the  fire- 
flies quivered;  above  the  deep  rift  of  the  valley  the 
stars  were  like  polished  silver  coins. 

Vaguely,  and  then  more  strongly,  out  of  a  chaos 
of  vain,  sick  regrets,  his  combativeness,  his  deep- 
lying,  indomitable  determination,  asserted  itself — 
he  would  not  fall  like  an  over-ripe  apple  into 
Simmons's  complacent,  waiting  grasp.  But  to  get, 
without  resources,  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  by 

44 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  45 

Saturday  was  a  preposterous  task.  Outside  his, 
Clare's,  home,  he  had  nothing  to  sell;  and  to  sell 
that  now,  he  realized  with  a  spoken  oath,  would  be 
to  throw  it  away — the  vultures,  Hollidew  and  Co., 
would  have  heard  of  his  necessity  and  regulated 
their  action,  the  local  supply  of  available  currency, 
accordingly. 

There  was  no  possible  way  of  earning  such  a  sum 
in  four  days;  there  was  little  more  chance,  he 
realized  sardonically,  of  stealing  it.  ...  Some- 
times large  sums  of  money  were  won  in  a  night's 
gambling  in  the  lumber  and  mining  towns  over  the 
West  Virginia  line.  But,  for  that,  he  should  require 
capital;  he  should  have  his  wages  to-morrow;  how- 
ever, if  he  gambled  with  that  and  lost,  Clare  and 
himself  would  face  immediate,  irredeemable  ruin. 
He  dismissed  that  consideration  from  the  range  of 
possibilities.  But  it  returned,  hovered  on  the 
border  of  his  thoughts — he  might  risk  a  part  of  his 
capital,  say  thirty  dollars.  If  he  lost  that,  they 
would  be  little  worse  off  than  they  were  at  present ; 
and  if  he  won  ...  he  might  easily  win. 

He  mentally  arranged  the  details,  assuring  him- 
self, the  while,  that  he  was  only  toying  with  the 
idea.  He  would  pay  the  customary  substitute  to 
drive  the  stage  to  Stenton,  and  cross  Cheap  Moun- 
tain on  foot;  by  dark  he  would  be  in  Sprucesap,  play 
that  night,  and  return  the  following  day,  Friday. 

With  an  effort  he  still  put  the  scheme  from  his 
thoughts,  but,  although  he  kept  it  in  abeyance, 
nothing  further  occurred  to  him.  That  gave  him  a 
possible  reprieve ;  all  else  offered  sure  disaster.  He 
rose  and  walked  slowly  toward  his  home,  revolving, 
testing,  the  various  aspects  of  the  trip  to  Sprucesap ; 


46  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

at  once  deciding  upon  that  venture,  and  repeating  to 
himself  the  incontestable  fact  of  its  utter  folly. 

The  dark  was  intense,  blue-black,  about  his  dwell- 
ing. He  struck  a  match  at  the  edge  of  the  porch, 
a  pointed  orange  exclamation  on  the  impenetrable 
gloom.  Clare,  weary  of  waiting,  had  gone  to  bed; 
her  door  was  shut,  her  window  tightly  closed.  The 
invisible  stream  gurgled  sadly  past  its  banks,  the 
whippoorwills  throbbed  with  ceaseless,  insistent 
passion. 

A  sudden  jumbled  vision  of  the  past  woven  about 
this  dwelling,  his  home,  wheeled  through  Gordon's 
mind,  scenes  happy  and  unhappy;  prevailing  want 
and  slim,  momentary  plenty ;  his  father  dead,  in  his 
coffin  with  a  stony,  pinched  countenance,  a  jaw  still 
unrelaxed  above  the  bright  flag  that  draped  his  non- 
descript uniform.  Later  events  followed — his 
elder,  vanished  brother  bullying  him;  the  brief 
romance  of  his  sister's  courtship ;  the  high,  strident 
voice  of  his  mother,  that  had  always  reminded  him 
of  her  angry  red  nose — events  familiar,  sordid,  un- 
lovely, but  now  they  seemed  all  of  a  piece  of 
desirable,  melancholy  happiness;  they  endowed 
with  a  hitherto  unsuspected  value  every  board  of 
the  rough  footing  of  the  Makimmon  dwelling,  every 
rood  of  the  poor,  rocky  soil,  the  weedy  grass.  He 
said  aloud,  in  a  subdued,  jarring  voice,  "  By  God, 
but  Simmons  won't  get  it !"  But  the  dreary 
whippoorwills,  the  feverish  crickets,  offered  him 
no  confirmation,  no  assurance. 


IX 

AT  noon,  on  the  day  following,  he  stood  on  the  top 
of  Cheap  Mountain,  gazing  back  into  the  deep, 
verdant  cleft  of  Greenstream.  From  Cheap  the 
reason  for  its  name  was  clear — it  flowed  now  direct, 
now  turning,  in  a  vivid  green  stream  along  the 
bases  of  its  mountainous  ranges;  it  flowed  tranquil 
and  dark  and  smooth  between  banks  of  tangled 
saplings,  matted,  multifarious  underbrush,  tower- 
ing, venerable  trees.  It  slipped  like  a  river, 
bearing  upon  its  balmy  surface  the  promise  of 
asylum,  of  sleep,  of  plenty,  through  the  primitive, 
ruthless  forest,  which  in  turn  pressed  upon  it  every- 
where the  menace  of  its  oblivion,  its  fierce, 
strangling  life. 

He  saw  below  him  stretches  of  the  steep,  rocky 
trail  by  which  he  had  mounted  with  the  mounting 
sun ;  both  had  now  reached  the  zenith  of  their  day's 
journey;  from  there  he  would  sink  into  the  shadow, 
the  secretiveness,  of  night.  .  .  .  Greenstream 
village  lay  twenty-eight  miles  behind ;  it  was  seven- 
teen more  to  Sprucesap:  he  hurried  forward. 

In  his  pocket  rested,  not  the  thirty  dollars  to 
which  he  had  limited  himself  in  thought,  but  his 
entire  month's  salary.  He  might  lose  all  by  the 
lack  of  a  paltry  dollar  or  so. 

He  was  dressed  with  more  care  than  on  the  day 
previous :  he  wore  a  dark  suit,  the  coat  to  which  now 

47 


48  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

swung  on  a  stick  over  his  shoulder,  a  rubber  collar, 
a  tie  of  orange  brocade  erected  on  a  superstructure 
of  cardboard ;  his  head  was  covered  by  a  hard  black 
felt  hat,  pushed  back  from  his  sweating  brow,  and 
his  trousers  hung  from,  a  pair  of  obviously  home- 
knitted  yarn  suspenders.  He  shifted  the  stick  from 
right  to  left.  His  revolver  dragged  chafing  against 
a  leg,  and  he  removed  it  and  thrust  it  into  a  pocket 
of  the  coat. 

He  followed  by  turn  an  old  rutted  postroad  and 
faint  forest  trails,  and  shortened  distances  by  break- 
ing through  the  trackless  underbrush,  watching 
subconsciously  for  rattlesnakes.  The  sun  slowly 
declined,  its  rays  fell  diagonally,  lengthening, 
through  the  trees;  in  a  glade  the  air  seemed  filled 
with  gold  dust;  the  sky  burned  in  a  single  flame 
of  apricot.  The  air,  rather  than  grow  dark,  ap- 
peared to  thicken  with  raw  colour,  with  mauve 
and  ultramarine,  silver  and  cinnabar. 

When  he  arrived  at  the  little  deeply-grassed  plain 
that  held  Sprucesap,  it  was  bathed  in  a  flaring  after- 
glow, a  magical  floating  light.  A  double  row  of 
board  structures  faced  each  other  across  a  street  of 
raw  clay  and  narrow  wood  sidewalks;  they  were, 
for  the  most  part,  unpainted,  hasty  erections  of  a 
single  story.  A  building  labelled  "  The  Steel  Spud 
Hotel "  was  more  pretentious.  .  The  others  were 
eating  houses,  stores  with  small  windows  filled  with 
a  threatening  miscellany — revolvers,  leather  slung 
shots  and  brass  knuckles — besides  lumbering  boots, 
gaudy  Mackinaw  jackets,  gleaming  knives,  and  am- 
munition. Beyond  the  street  a  single  car  track  ran 
precariously  over  the  green,  and  ended  abruptly, 
without  roadbed  or  visible  terminus ;  at  one  side  was 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  49 

a  rude  platform,  on  the  other  a  great  pile  of  bark, 
rotting  from  long  exposure — the  result  of  some 
artificial  condition  of  the  market,  the  spite  of 
powerful  and  vindictive  merchants. 

A  second  hotel  stood  alone,  beyond  the  car  tracks, 
and  there  Gordon  removed  the  marks  of  his  journey, 
resettled  his  collar  and  the  resplendent  tie.  He 
felt  in  his  coat  for  the  revolver,  in  order  to  transfer 
it  to  a  more  convenient  pocket.  ...  Its  bulk, 
apparently,  evaded  his  fingers.  His  search 
quickened — it  had  gone !  He  had  lost  it  some- 
where on  his  long,  devious  passage  of  Cheap 
Mountain.  Without  it  he  should  be  in  the  power  of 
any  spindling  gambler  who  faced  a  dishonest  ace. 
It  would  be  necessary  to  procure  another  weapon 
before  proceeding  with  his  purpose  .  .  .  ten  dollars, 
perhaps  fifteen ;  revolvers  were  highly  priced  in  the 
turbulent  distant  wild.  Could  he  afford  to  lose  that 
amount  from  his  slender  store  of  dollars  ?  Intact, 
it  was  absurdly  inadequate.  He  debated  the 
choice — on  one  hand  the  peril  of  gambling  unarmed, 
on  the  other  his  desperate  need  for  money.  Once 
more  he  considered  Clare :  in  the  end  his  arrogance 
of  manhood  brought  a  decision — he  would  preserve 
the  money  for  play.  He  was,  he  thought  insolently 
of  himself,  quick  as  a  copperhead  snake,  and  as 
dangerous.  After  supper  he  sat  on  the  porch, 
twisting  and  consuming  cigarettes,  waiting  for  the 
night. 


LARGE  kerosene  lamps  dilated  by  tin  reflectors  lit 
the  front  of  "  The  Steel  Spud/'  In  their  radiance 
he  saw  the  gaily-attired  form  of  a  woman.  She 
wore  a  white  hat,  with  a  sweeping  white  ostrich 
plume,  which  hid  her  face  with  the  exception  of  a 
retreating  chin  and  prominent  carmine  lips;  and  a 
fat,  unwieldy  body  was  covered  by  a  waist  of 
Scotch  plaid  silk — lines  and  squares  of  black  and 
primary  colours — and  a  short,  scant  skirt  of  blue 
broadcloth  that,  drawn  up  by  her  knees,  exposed 
small  feet  in  white  kid  and  heavy  ankles. 

Gordon  Makimmon  paused,  and  she  leaned  for- 
ward to  meet  his  challenging  gaze.  "  Just  in  from 
camp  ?"  she  inquired,  in  a  voice  hoarse,  repellent, 
conciliatory,  and  with  a  mechanical  grimace  which 
he  identified  as  a  smile.  He  stopped  at  the  invita- 
tion in  her  tones,  and  nodded.  "  And  looking  for  a 
good  time,"  he  further  informed  her;  "  perhaps  a 
little  game." 

"  Stop  right  where  you  are,"  she  declared. 
'  You've  found  them  both."  He  mounted  to  the 
porch  and  shook  her  extended  hand,  cushioned  with 
fat,  and  oddly  damp  and  lifeless.  He  could  see  her 
countenance  now.  It  was  plaster  white  with  insig- 
nificant features  and  rose  like  an  amorphous  column 
from  a  swollen  throat — a  nose  like  a  dab  of  putty, 

50 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  51 

eyes  obscured  by  drooping  pouchy  lids,  leaden- 
hued. 

"  It's  a  good  thing  you  seen  me/'  she  told  him, 
endeavouring  to  establish  a  relationship  of  easy 
confidence,  "  instead  of  them  diseased  Mags 
down  the  street.  Shall  we  have  a  little  drink 
upstairs  ?" 

"  It's  early,"  he  negligently  interposed;  "  how 
about  a  turn  of  the  cards  first  ?  do  you  know  any  one 
who  would  take  a  hand  ?" 

"  I  got  my  friend  here,  and  there's  a  gentleman 
at  the  hotel  would  accommodate  us.  They're  in- 
side." She  rose  and  moved  toward  the  door, 
waving  him  to  follow.  Her  slow,  clumsy  body  and 
chinless,  full-lidded  head  reminded  him  of  a  turtle; 
she  gave  a  still  deeper  amphibious  impression — 
there  was  something  markedly  cold-blooded,  in- 
human, deleted,  in  her  incongruous,  gaudy  bulk — 
an  impression  of  a  low,  primitive  organism,  the 
subtle  smell  of  primal  mud. 

"  Jake  !"  she  called  at  the  entrance  to  the  crude 
hotel  office;  "  Jake  !  Mr.  Ottinger  !  here's  a  gentle- 
man wants  a  little  game." 

Two  men  hastily  rose  and  advanced  toward  the 
door.  The  first,  Jake,  was  small,  with  the  narrow, 
high  shoulders,  the  long,  pale  face,  the  long,  pale 
hands,  of  a  cripple.  The  other,  a  young  man  with 
a  sodden  countenance  discoloured  by  old  purplish 
bruises,  wore  a  misfitting  suit  that  drew  across 
heavy,  bowed  shoulders,  thick,  powerful  arms.  He 
regarded  Gordon  Makimmon  with  no  light  dawning 
upon  his  lowering  face;  no  greeting  disturbed  the 
dark,  hard  line  of  his  mouth.  But  the  other,  with 
an£apparently  hearty,  stereotyped  flow  of  words, 


52  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

applauded  Gordon's  design,  approved  his  qualities  of 
sportsmanship,  courage. 

"  Give  me  the  man  from  the  woods  for  an  open- 
handed  sport,"  he  vociferated;  "  he  ain't  a  fool 
neither,  he's  wise  to  the  time  of  night.  The  city 
crowd,  the  wise  ones,  are  the  real  ringside  marks." 

"  Come  up  to  my  room,"  the  woman  directed  from 
the  foot  of  a  stairway,  "  where  no  amateur  John 
Condons  will  tell  us  how  to  play  our  cards.  I  got 
some  good  liquor,  too." 

In  her  room  she  lit  a  small  lamp,  which  proved 
insufficient,  and  Mr.  Ottinger  brought  a  second  from 
his  quarters.  Gordon  found  himself  in  a  long,  nar- 
row chamber  furnished  with  two  wooden  beds,  two 
identical,  insecure  bureaus,  stands  with  wash  basins 
and  pitchers,  and  a  table.  The  floor,  the  walls,  the 
ceiling,  were  resinous  yellow  pine,  and  gave  out  a 
hot  dry  smell  from  which  there  was  no  escape  but 
the  door,  for  the  room  was  without  other  outlet. 

A  preliminary  drink  was  indispensable;  and, 
served  in  two  glasses  and  a  cracked  toothbrush  mug 
— Mr.  Ottinger  elected  to  imbibe  his  "  straight  " 
from  the  bottle — it  was  drunk  with  mutual  assur- 
ances of  tender  regard.  "  Happy  days,"  the  woman 
pronounced.  Only  three  chairs  were  available,  and 
after  some  shuffling,  appropriate  references  to 
"  honest  and  plain  "  country  accommodations,  the 
table  was  ranged  by  a  bed  on  which  Em—  "  Call  me 
Em,"  she  had  invited  Gordon;  "  let's  be  real  home- 
like,"— seated  herself. 

The  smaller  man  ostentatiously  broke  the  seal 
from  a  new  pack  of  cards,  dexterously  spreading 
them  across  the  table.  His  hands,  Gordon  saw, 
were  extraordinarily  supple,  and  emanated  a  sickly 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  53 

odour  of  glycerine.  His  companion's  were  huge 
and  misshapen,  but  they,  too,  were  surprisingly 
deft,  quick. 

"What'll  it  be?"  Jake  demanded;  "jackpots; 
stud;  straight  draw ' 

"  Hell,  let's  throw  cold  hands,"  Mr.  Ottinger  in- 
terrupted; "chop  the  trimmings.  We're  here  for 
the  stuff,  ain't  we  ?"  He  was  immediately  repre- 
hended for  his  brusque,  unsociable  manner. 

"  He's  got  the  idea,  though,"  Gordon  approved; 
"  we're  here  for  the  stuff."  It  was  finally  arranged 
that  poker  hands  should  be  dealt,  a  draw  allowed, 
and  the  cards  shown,  the  highest  cards  to  take  the 
visible  money.  "  A  dollar  a  go  ?"  Jake  queried, 
cutting  for  the  deal.  On  the  bed  by  the  woman's 
side  was  a  tarnished  silver  bag,  with  an  ornate, 
meretricious  clasp;  her  two  companions  produced 
casual  rolls  of  paper  money;  and  Gordon  detached 
five  dollars  from  the  slender  amount  of  his  wage, 
his  paramount  capital.  On  a  washstand,  within 
easy  reach,  stood  the  bottle  of  whisky,  flanked  by  the 
motley  array  of  drinking  vessels. 

Gordon  Makimmon's  five  dollars  vanished  in  as 
many  minutes.  Oppressed  by  consuming  anxiety, 
he  could  scarcely  breathe  in  the  close,  stale  air.  Em 
gambled  with  an  affectation  of  careless  indifference ; 
she  asked  in  an  off-hand  manner  for  cards,  paid 
her  losses  with  a  loud  laugh.  Jake  invariably  gave 
one  rapid  glance  at  his  hand,  and  then  threw  it 
down  upon  the  table  without  separating  his  discard. 
Mr.  Ottinger,  it  was  plain,  was  superstitious — he 
edged  his  hand  open  by  imperceptible  degrees  until 
the  denominations  of  the  cards  were  visible,  then 
hurriedly  closed  them  from  sight;  often  he  didn't 


54  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

look  at  his  draw  until  all  the  hands  were  exposed. 
He  wrinkled  his  face  in  painful  efforts  of  concentra- 
tion, protruded  a  thick  and  unsavoury  tongue.  At 
the  loose  corners  of  Jake's  mouth  flecks  of  saliva 
gathered  whitely ;  in  the  fleering  light  of  the  kerosene 
the  shadows  on  his  face  were  cobalt.  The  woman's 
face  shone  with  drops  of  perspiration  that  formed 
slowly  and  rolled  like  a  flash  over  her  plastered 
skin. 

Another  round  of  drinks  was  negotiated,  adding 
to  the  fiery  discomfort  of  the  sealed  room,  of  the 
dry,  dead  atmosphere.  Gordon  won  back  his  five 
dollars,  and  gained  five  more.  "  Let's  make  it  two 
a  throw,"  the  woman  proposed.  The  thickset 
young  man  remuttered  the  period  that  they  were 
there  for  the  stuff.  "  Otty  will  have  his  little  joke," 
she  proclaimed. 

"  It's  not  funny,"  he  protested  seriously. 

"  Two  ?"  Jake  demanded  of  Gordon.  The  latter 
nodded. 


XI 

LATE  in  the  night  they  were  still  playing  without 
a  change  in  their  positions.  Em  still  perspired; 
but  Mr.  Ottinger  no  longer  protruded  his  tongue, 
a  sullen  anger  was  evident  in  his  every  move; 
Jake's  affable  flow  of  conversation  was  hushed; 
Gordon's  face  set.  It  was,  indisputably,  not  funny 
— he  had  won  nearly  two  hundred  dollars.  "  Make 
it  ten  ?"  Jake  queried.  The  others  nodded.  Now 
Gordon  had  two  hundred  and  twenty  dollars;  an 
extraordinary,  overwhelming  luck  presided  over 
his  cards,  he  won  more  frequently  than  the  other 
three  together.  A  tense  silence  enveloped  the 
latter:  they  shuffled,  demanded  cards,  threw  down 
their  hands,  in  a  hurried,  disorganized  fashion. 
They  glanced,  each  at  the  other,  swiftly;  it  was 
evident  that  a  common  idea,  other  than  the  game, 
possessed  them.  Jake  hovered  a  breath  longer 
than  necessary  over  the  bottle,  then  pressed  a 
drink  upon  Gordon.  He  refused;  this,  he  recog- 
nized, was  not  a  time  for  dissipation;  he  needed 
every  faculty. 

Two  hundred  and  sixty  dollars.  The  air  of  sup- 
pression, of  tension,  increased.  Gordon's  only  con- 
cern now  was  to  get  away,  to  take  the  money 
with  him. 

Em  shuffled  in  a  slipshod,  inattentive  manner; 

55 


56  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

Mr.  Ottinger  opened  his  hand  boldly,  faced  his  bad 
luck  with  a  stony  eye ;  Jake  laboured  under  a  painful 
excitement,  obviously  not  connected  with  his  losses ; 
his  long,  waxy  fingers  quivered,  a  feverish  point 
of  fire  flickered  in  either  cadaverous  cheek ;  his  eyes 
glowed  between  hollow,  sunken  temples.  "  Four," 
he  demanded,  with  shaking  lips.  Mr.  Ottinger 
rapped  out  a  request  for  one.  "  I'm  satisfied," 
Gordon  said. 

"  Don't  that  sucker  beat  hell !"  Em  declared,  the 
solicitous  manner  that,  earlier  in  the  evening,  had 
marked  her  manner  toward  Gordon  carelessly  dis- 
carded. '  I'm  taking  three."  A  sudden,  visible 
boredom  fell  upon  her  as  she  glanced  at  her  filled 
hand.  "  Leave  us  double  it,"  she  remarked. 
Gordon  nodded,  and  she  threw  her  hand  upon  the 
table ;  it  held  four  nines.  She  reached  her  fat,  chalky 
arm  toward  the  money,  but  Gordon  was  before  her. 
"  Four  queens,"  he  shot  out,  grasping  the  crumpled 
bills. 

Em  cursed;  then  followed  a  short,  awkward 
silence.  It  was  Ottinger's  deal,  but  he  did  not  pick 
up  the  scattered  cards.  Gordon  gathered  himself 
alertly,  measuring  the  distance  to  the  door.  "  I've 
got  enough,"  he  remarked;  "  I'm  going  to  quit." 

"  You  got  enough,  all  right,"  Em  agreed.  "  Now, 
how'd  you  like  to  have  a  real  good  time  ?"  She 
disposed  herself  upon  her  elbow,  so  that  the  sagging 
bulk  of  her  body  was  emphasised  through  its 
straining  apparel;  one  leg,  incredible,  leviathan, 
was  largely  visible. 

'  I've  had  enough,"  Gordon  repeated;  "  I'll  be 
moving." 

Em  rose  quickly,   losing  her  air  of    coquetry. 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  57 

Gordon  was  facing  the  men,  and  was  unprepared  for 
the  heavy  blow  she  dealt  upon  the  back  of  his  neck. 
"  Hang  it  on  him,  Otty  !"  she  cried  excitedly. 

Mr.  Ottinger  shoved  the  card  table  from  his  path. 
It  was  now  evident  that  it  was,  precisely,  to  "  hang 
it  on  "  whoever  might  be  elected  for  that  delicate 
attention  that  formed  Otty's  purpose,  profession, 
preoccupation,  in  life.  He  was,  for  a  heavy  man, 
active;  and,  before  Gordon  Makimmon  could  put 
out  a  protective  arm,  he  returned  the  latter  to  the 
perpendicular  with  a  jarring  blow  on  the  chin. 
Jake  whipped  out  from  a  place  of  concealment  on 
his  person  a  plaited  leather  weapon  with  a  globular 
end. 

It  was  Jake,  Gordon  instinctively  knew,  who 
threatened  him  most ;  he  could  easily  stop  the  hulk- 
ing shape  before  him.  He  regained  his  poise,  and 
returned  blow  for  blow  with  Mr.  Ottinger;  neither 
man  guarded — each  was  solely  intent  upon  mark- 
ing, crippling,  the  other.  A  chair  fell,  sliding 
across  the  floor;  a  washstand  collapsed  with  a 
splintering  crash  of  china,  a  miniature  flood.  Em 
stood  on  the  outskirts  of  the  conflict,  armed  with 
the  whisky  bottle ;  Jake  crouched  watchful  with  the 
leather  club.  Gordon  cut  his  opponent's  face  with 
short,  vicious  jabs;  he  was,  as  customary,  cold — 
he  saw  clearly  where  every  blow  fell ;  he  saw  Otty's 
nose  grotesquely  shapeless  and  blackened;  he  felt 
Otty's  teeth  cut  the  skin  of  his  knuckles  and  break 
off;  he  heard  his  involuntary  gasp  as  he  struck  him 
a  hammer-like  blow  over  the  heart. 

Mr.  Ottinger,  in  return,  hit  him  frequently  and 
with  effect.  Gordon  was  conscious  of  a  warm, 
gummy  tide  spreading  over  his  face,  he  saw  with 


58  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

difficulty  through  rapidly  closing  eyes.  "  For  Cri's 
sake,"  Otty  gasped,  "  get  to  him;  the  town'll  be 
on  us." 

Em  made  an  ineffectual  lunge  with  the  bottle. 
Gordon  swung  the  point  of  his  elbow  into  her  side, 
and  she  sat  on  the  bed  with  a  "  G-G-God  !"  Jake 
hit  him  with  the  club  on  the  shoulder  blade ;  numb- 
ness radiated  from  the  struck  point ;  there  was  a  loss 
of  power  in  the  corresponding  arm.  Jake  hit  him 
again,  and  a  stabbing  pain  entered  his  side  and 
stayed  apparently  tangled  in  splintered  bone.  He 
paused  for  a  moment,  and  all  three  fell  upon  him, 
beating,  clubbing,  kicking.  He  fought  on,  now 
rapidly  losing  power.  The  woman  threw  herself  on 
his  back,  forced  him  to  his  knees.  "  Won't  none  of 
you  do  for  him  ?"  she  complained  hysterically.  She 
pressed  his  head  into  her  breast,  and  Mr.  Ottinger 
hit  him  below  and  just  back  of  his  ear.  Gordon 
slipped  out  full  length  on  the  floor. 

He  was  waveringly  conscious,  but  he  had  lost  all 
interest,  all  sense  of  personal  connection,  with  the 
proceedings.  He  dully  watched  Ottinger  draw 
back,  tenderly  fingering  his  damaged  features;  he 
saw  Em  breathing  stormily,  empurpled.  Jake,  with 
the  crimson  flames  in  his  long,  pallid  mask,  the 
white  saliva  flecking  his  jaw,  hung  over  him  with  a 
glassy,  intent  stare. 

"Get  the  stuff,"  the  practical  Ottinger  urged; 
"  it's  the  stuff  we're  after.  Don't  go  bug  again." 

"  Jake  don't  hear  you,"  Em  told  him;  "he's  off. 
I'm  glad  the  fella's  going  to  be  fixed — he  jolted  me 
something  fierce." 

Jake  swung  the  little  flexuous  club  softly  against 
his  palm,  and  Gordon  suddenly  realized  that  the 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  59 

cripple  intended  to  kill  him. — That  was  the  lust 
which  transfigured  the  gambler's  countenance,  which 
lit  the  fires  in  the  deathly  cheeks,  set  the  long 
fingers  shaking.  Gordon  considered  the  idea,  and, 
obscurely,  it  troubled  him,  moved  him  a  space 
from  his  apathy.  Instinctively,  in  response  to  a 
sudden  movement  of  the  figure  above  him,  he  drew 
his  arm  up  in  front  of  his  head;  and  an  intolerable 
pain  shot  up  through  his  shoulder  and  flared, 
blindingly,  in  his  eyes.  It  pierced  his  indifference, 
set  in  motion  his  reason,  his  memory ;  he  realized  the 
necessity,  the  danger,  of  his  predicament  .  .  .  the 
money  ! — he  must  guard  it,  take  it  back  with  him. 
Above,  in  a  heated  orange  mist,  the  woman's  face 
loomed  blank  and  inhuman;  farther  back  Mr. 
Ottinger's  features  were  indistinctly  visible. 

He  must  rise.  .  .  . 

His  groping  hand  caught  hold  of  the  rung  of 
the  chair,  and,  with  herculean  labour,  he  turned  and 
raised  himself  a  fraction  from  the  floor.  Jake 
directed  a  hasty  blow  at  his  head  that  missed  him 
altogether.  His  other  hand  caught  the  chair,  and 
he  dragged  himself  dizzily  into  a  kneeling  posture. 
A  sudden  change  swept  over  the  three  above  him. 

"  Nail  him  where  he  is  !"  Em  cried  excitedly; 
"  he's  getting  up  on  you/'  Gordon's  hands  moved 
uncertainly  upward  on  the  chair ;  his  knees  rose  from 
the  floor.  A  shower  of  blows  fell  on  him;  the 
woman  beat  him  with  her  pudgy  fists;  Mr.  Ottinger 
was  kicking  at  him;  Jake  was  weeping,  and  en- 
deavouring to  get  room  in  which  to  swing  his  club. 

Gordon  had  one  foot  on  the  floor. 

"  Give  me  a  chance  at  him,"  Jake  implored; 
"  give  me  a  chance.  God,  if  I  had  a  knife  !" 


60  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

If  they  took  away  the  chair,  Gordon  knew,  he  was 
lost.  He  clung  to  it;  pressed  his  breast  against  it; 
crept  upward  by  means  of  it,  slowly,  slowly,  through 
a  storm  of  battering  hands.  It  seemed  to  him  that, 
in  rising,  he  was  shouldering  aside  the  entire  weight, 
the  forces,  of  a  universe  bent  on  his  destruction, 
against  which  he  was  determined  to  prevail.  It  was 
as  though  his  will,  the  vitality  which  animated  him, 
which  was  his  soul,  stood  aside  from  his  beaten  and 
suffering  body,  and,  with  a  cold,  a  cruel,  detach- 
ment, commanded  it  upright. 

The  woman's  bulk  got  in  Jake's  way,  and  he 
struck  her  across  the  eyes  with  the  back  of  his  hand, 
consigning  her  to  eternal  hell.  Mr.  Ottinger,  con- 
fused by  the  irregularity  of  the  turmoil,  worked 
inefficiently,  swinging  at  random  his  hard  fists, 
kicking  impartially. 

Gordon  now  had  both  feet  upon  the  floor;  he 
straightened  up.  For  a  breath  the  three  stood 
motionless,  livid;  and  in  that  instant  his  hand  fell 
upon  the  door  knob,  he  staggered  back  into  the 
hall,  carrying  with  him  a  vision  of  his  brocaded  tie 
lying  upon  the  floor. 


XII 

HE  stumbled  hastily  down  the  stairway  and  found 
the  narrow  porch,  the  serene  enveloping  night; 
down  the  street,  lamps  made  blots  of  brightness, 
but,  beyond,  the  obscurity  was  profound,  unbroken. 
Wave  after  wave  of  nausea  swept  over  him;  he 
clung  to  a  porch  support  with  cold  sweat  starting 
through  the  blood  that  smeared  his  countenance, 
stiffened  in  his  shirt,  that  was  warm  upon  his 
side. 

The  sound  of  footfalls,  sharp,  repressed  voices 
from  above,  stirred  him  into  a  fresh  realization  of 
his  precarious  position.  The  gamblers  would  follow 
him,  rob  him  with  impunity  in  the  shadows  of 
Sprucesap's  lawless  street,  drag  him  behind  the 
angle  of  a  building,  where  Jake  would  have 
ample  scope  for  the  swinging  of  his  leathered 
lead.  .  .  . 

He  lurched  down  to  the  street  and  silently  merged 
into  the  awaiting  night. 

At  dawn  he  appeared  from  a  thicket,  a  mile 
beyond  Sprucesap  on  the  road  to  Greens tream,  and 
negotiated  successfully  a  ride  on  a  load  of  fragrant 
upland  hay  to  a  point  within  a  few  miles  of  his 
destination.  His  coat,  soiled  and  torn,  was  but- 
toned across  a  bare  throat,  for  his  shirt  had  been 
ripped  into  bandages;  his  face,  apparently,  had  been 
harrowed  for  a  red  planting ;  he  moved  awkwardly, 

61 


62  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

breathed  with  a  gasp  from  a  stabbing  pain  in  the 
side  .  .  .  but  he  moved,  breathed.  He  drank  with 
long  delight  from  a  sparkling  spring.  He  had  the 
money,  two  hundred  and  eighty  dollars,  safely  in  his 
pocket. 


XIII 

THE  afternoon  was  waning  when  he  gazed  again 
into  the  deep  sombrous  rift  of  Greenstream :  from 
where  Gordon  stood,  on  the  heights,  in  the  flooding 
sun,  it  appeared  to  be  already  evening  below.  As 
he  descended  the  mountainside  the  cool  shadows 
rose  about  him,  enveloping  him  in  the  quietude, 
the  sense  of  security,  which  brooded  over  the  with- 
drawn valley — the  resplendent  mirage  of  Nature 
kind,  beneficent,  the  illusion  of  Nature  as  a  tender 
and  loving  parent  ...  of  Nature,  as  imminent, 
as  automatic,  as  a  landslip  crushing  a  path  to  the 
far,  secret  resting  place  of  its  destiny. 

Dr.  Pelliter's  light  carriage  with  its  pair  of  weedy 
young  horses  stood  hitched  by  the  road  above  the 
Makimmon  dwelling;  and,  on  entering  the  house, 
Gordon  found  Clare  in  bed  and  Pelliter  seated  at 
her  side.  A  gaily-patched  quilt  hid  all  but  her 
head.  She  smiled  at  Gordon  through  her  pale  mask 
of  suffering;  but  her  greeting  turned  to  swift  con- 
cern at  his  battered  countenance.  "  An  accident," 
he  explained  impatiently. 

The  doctor  greeted  him  seriously.  He  had, 
Gordon  knew,  a  sovereign  and  inevitable  remedy  for 
all  the  ills  of  the  flesh — pain,  he  argued,  and  disease 
were  inseparable.  Subdue  the  first,  and  the  latter 
ceased  to  exist  as  an  active  ill;  and  a  dexterously 

63 


64  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

wielded  hypodermic  needle  left  behind  him  a  trail 
of  narcotized  and  relieved  sufferers.  Bottles  of 
patent  medicines,  exhilarating  or  numbing  as  the 
purchaser  might  require,  lined  the  shelves  of  his 
drug  store. 

But  now  his  customary  soothing  smile  was 
absent,  the  small,  worn  case  that  contained  the 
glittering  syringe  and  minute  bottles  filled  with 
white  or  vivid  yellow  pellets  was  not  to  be  seen. 

"  Clare  here's  gone  and  got  herself  real  miser- 
able," he  stated,  rising  and  beckoning  Gordon  to 
follow  him  to  the  porch.  "  She's  bad,"  he  pro- 
nounced outside;  "  that  pain's  got  the  best  of  her, 
and  it's  getting  the  best  of  me.  She  ought  to  be 
cut,  but  she's  so  weak,  it's  gone  so  long,  that  I'm 
kind  of  slow  about  opening  her.  And  the  truth  is, 
Gordon,  if  I  was  successful  she  wouldn't  have  a 
chance  of  getting  well  here — it'll  take  expert 
nursing,  awful  nice  food;  and  then,  at  the  shortest, 
she  would  be  in  bed  a  couple  of  months.  She  ought 
to  go  to  the  hospital  in  Stenton.  That's  the  real 
truth.  I'm  telling  you  the  facts,  Gordon;  we  can't 
handle  her  here — she'd  die  on  us." 

Gordon  only  half  comprehended  the  other's  words 
— Clare  dangerously  ill  ...  a  question  of  dying, 
hospitals.  She  had  suffered  for  so  long  that,  with- 
out losing  his  sympathy  for  her,  it  had  seemed  to  him 
her  inevitable  condition.  It  had  fallen  naturally 
upon  him  to  care  for  her,  guard  her  against  damp, 
prevent  her  from  lifting  objects  beyond  her  strength. 
These  continual  small  attentions  held  an  impor- 
tant place  in  his  existence — he  thought  about  her  in 
a  mind  devoted  substantially  to  himself,  and  it 
brought  him  a  glow  of  contentment,  a  pleasant  feel- 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  65 

ing  of  ministration  and  importance.  It  had  not 
occurred  to  him  that  Clare  might  grow  worse,  that 
she  might,  in  fact,  die.  The  idea  filled  him  with 
sudden  dismay.  His  heart  contracted  with  a  sharp 
hurt.  "  The  hospital,"  he  echoed  dully,  "  Stenton.' ' 

"  By  rights,"  the  doctor  iterated;  "  of  course  we'll 
do  what  we  can  here — she  might  last  for  a  couple  of 
years  more  without  cutting;  and  then,  again,  her 
heart  might  just  quit.  Still " 

"  What  would  the  hospital  cost  ?"  Gordon 
asked,  almost  unaware  of  having  pronounced  the 
words. 

"  It'd  be  dear — two  hundred  and  some  dollars 
anyway,  and  the  money  on  the  nail.  The  nursing 
would  count  up ;  then  there  would  be  something  for 
operating,  if  it  was  only  a  little  .  .  .  a  lot  of  things 
you  don't  allow  for  would  turn  up." 

Two  hundred  and  more  dollars  !  Gordon  had  a 
fleeting  vision,  against  the  empurpling  banks,  the 
dark,  sliding  water,  and  the  mountainous  wall 
capped  with  dissolving  gold  beyond,  of  a  room  filled 
with  the  hot  glow  of  kerosene  lamps;  he  saw  Jake's 
twitching,  murderous  countenance  above  him.  .  .  . 
Two  hundred  dollars  !  He  had  two  hundred  and 
eighty  dollars  in  his  pocket.  He  had  another  vision 
—of  Simmons ;  it  was  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars 
that  the  latter  wanted,  must  have,  to-morrow.  But 
Simmons  swiftly  faded  before  Clare's  need,  the 
pressure  of  sickness. 

"  She  couldn't  go  down  in  the  stage,"  he  muttered ; 
"  the  shaking  would  kill  her  before  ever  she  got 
there." 

"  I'll  drive  her  to  Stenton,  Gordon,"  the  doctor 
volunteered,  "  if  you've  got  the  money  handy." 

5 


66  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

"  I've  got  her,"  Gordon  Makimmon  declared 
grimly. 

'  I'll  take  her  right  to  the  hospital  and  give  her 
to  the  doctor  in  charge.  Everything  will  be  done 
for  her  comfort.  She  has  an  elegant  chance  of  pull- 
ing through,  there.  And  you  can  see  her  when  you 

go  down  with  the  stage "  Pelliter  suddenly 

stopped;  he  appeared  disconcerted  by  what  he  had 
said. 

"  Well,"  Gordon  demanded,  his  attention  held  by 
the  other's  manner,  "  can't  I  ?" 

"  You  were  away  from  Greenstream  yesterday 
and  to-day,"  the  doctor  replied  evasively,  "  you 
didn't  hear  .  .  .  oh,  there's  nothing  in  it  if  you 
didn't.  I  heard  that  Simmons  had  had  you  taken 
off  the  stage.  Did  you  have  trouble  with  Buckley, 
cut  him  with  a  whip  ?  Buck  has  been  blowing 
about  showing  you  a  thing  or  two." 

A  feeling  of  angry  dismay  enveloped  Gordon. 
He  had  recognized,  obscurely,  that  Simmons  and  old 
man  Hollidew  dominated  the  community,  but  he  had 
never  before  come  in  actual  contact  with  their  arbi- 
trary power,  he  had  never  before  been  faced  by  the 
overmastering  weapon  of  their  material  possessions, 
the  sheer  weight  of  their  wealth.  It  stirred  him  to 
revolt,  elemental  and  bitter;  every  instinct  rose 
against  the  despotic  power  which  threatened  to  over- 
whelm him. 

"By  God!"  he  exclaimed,  "but  they  will  find 
that  I'm  no  sheep  to  drive  into  their  lot  and 
shear  !" 

"  Now,  about  Clare,"  the  doctor  interposed. 

"  When  will  you  come  for  her  ?"  Gordon  inquired. 
He  took  from  his  pocket  the  roll  of  money  he  had 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  67 

won  at  Sprucesap,  and  counted  two  hundred  dollars, 
which  he  tended  to  the  doctor. 

"  To-morrow,  about  seven.  Everything  will  be 
done  for  her,  Gordon.  I  reckon  that's  only  an 
empty  splash  about  the  stage." 

The  dusk  had  thickened  in  Clare's  room ;  he  could 
scarcely  distinguish  her  face,  white  against  the 
darkened  squares  of  the  quilt.  "  Whoever  will  get 
your  supper  ?"  she  worried,  when  he  had  told  her; 
"  and  the  cow'll  need  bedding,  and  those  cheeses 
brought  in  off  the  roof,  and " 

He  closed  her  mouth  with  a  gentle  palm.  "  I've 
done  'em  all  a  hundred  times,"  he  declared.  "  We're 
going  to  get  you  right,  this  spell,  Clare,"  he  pro- 
claimed; "you'll  get  professional,  real  stylish  care 
at  Stenton." 

She  rose,  trembling,  on  her  arms.  "  Are  they 
going  to  cut  at  me  ?"  she  asked. 

The  lie  on  his  lips  perished  silently  before  her 
grave  tones.  "  It's  not  rightly  a  dangerous  opera- 
tion," he  protested;  "  thousands  come  out  of  it  every 
year." 

"  Gordon,  I'm  af eared  of  it." 

"  No,  you're  not,  Clare  Makimmon;  there's  not  a 
drop  of  fear  in  you." 

"  It's  not  just  death  I'm  afeared  of,  it's — oh, 
you  will  never  understand  for  being  a  man."  Her 
voice  lowered  instinctively.  "  Somehow  I  hate  the 
thought  of  those  strange  men  hacking  and  spoiling 
my  body.  That's  just  foolishness,  I  know,  and  my 
time's  pretty  well  gone  for  foolishness.  I've  always 
sort  of  tended  my  body,  Gordon,  and  kept  it  white 
and  soft.  I  thought  if  a  man  asked  me  in  spite  of — 
well,  my  face,  he  could  take  pride  in  me  under- 


68  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

neath.  But  that's  all  done  with ;  I  ought  to  be  glad 
for  the  .  .  .  Gordon ! "  she  exclaimed  more 
energetically,  "  it  will  cost  a  heap  of  money;  how 
will  you  get  it  ?  Don't  borrow." 

"  I  got  it,"  he  interrupted  her  tersely,  "  and  I 
didn't  borrow  it,  neither." 


XIV 

HE  woke  at  dawn.  The  whippoorwills,  the  frogs 
and  crickets,  were  silent,  and  the  sharp,  sweet  song 
of  a  mocking  bird  throbbed  from  a  hedge.  It  was 
dark  in  the  valley,  but,  high  above,  the  air  was 
already  brightening  with  the  sun;  a  symmetrical 
cloud  caught  the  solar  rays  and  flushed  rosy  against 
silver  space.  The  valley  turned  from  indistinct 
blue  to  grey,  to  sparkling  green.  The  sun  gilded 
the  peaks  of  the  western  range,  and  slipped  slowly 
down,  spilling  into  the  depth.  It  was  almost  cold, 
the  pump  handle,  the  rough  sward,  the  foliage 
beyond,  were  drenched  with  white  dew;  a  damp, 
misty  veil  lifted  from  the  surface  of  the  stream. 

Clare  declared  that  she  felt  stronger ;  she  dressed, 
insisted  upon  frying  his  breakfast.  "  You  ought  to 
have  somebody  in,"  she  asserted  later.  They  were 
on  the  shallow  porch,  waiting  stiffly  for  the  doctor. 
"  But  don't  get  that  eldest  of  your  sister's;  last  time 
she  wore  my  sateen  waist  and  run  the  colours." 

Just  as  she  was  leaving  he  slipped  twenty  dollars 
into  her  hand.  "  Write  when  you  want  more,"  he 
directed;  "  and  I'll  be  down  to  see  you  .  .  .  yes, 
often  .  .  .  the  stage."  A  leaden  depression  settled 
over  him  as  the  doctor's  carriage  took  her  from  sight. 
The  house  to  which  he  turned  was  deserted,  lonely. 
He  locked  the  door  to  her  room. 

69 


XV 

ONE  of  the  canvas-covered  mountain  wagons  was 
unloading  on  the  platform  before  Simmons's  store 
when  Gordon  entered  the  centre  of  the  village.  A 
miscellaneous  pile  of  merchandise  was  growing, 
presided  over  by  a  clerk  with  a  pencil  and  tally  book. 
Valentine  Simmons,  without  his  coat,  in  an  im- 
maculate starched  white  waistcoat,  stood  upon 
one  side. 

Gordon,  without  delay,  approached  him.  "  I  can 
give  you  a  hundred  dollars,"  he  informed  the  other, 
exhibiting  that  sum. 

"  Two  hundred  and  fifty  wrill  be  necessary," 
Simmons  informed  him  concisely,  "  to-day." 

"  Come  to  reason " 

Valentine  Simmons  turned  his  back  squarely 
upon  him.  A  realization  of  the  uselessness  of 
further  words  possessed  Gordon;  he  returned  the 
money  to  his  pocket.  The  contemptuous  neglect 
of  the  other  lit  the  ever-trimmed  lamp  of  his  temper. 
"  What's  this,"  he  demanded,  "  I  hear  about  driving 
stage  ?  about  Buck  boasting  around  that  he  had  had 
me  laid  off?" 

;<  That's  not  correct,"  Simmons  informed  him 
smoothly;  "  Buckley  has  no  power  to  do  that  .  .  . 
the  owners  of  the  privilege  decided  that  you  were 
too  unreliable." 

70 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  71 

'  Then  it's  true,"  Gordon  interrupted  him,  "  I'm 
off?"  Simmons  nodded.  Gordon's  temper  swelled 
and  flared  whitely  before  his  vision;  rage  possessed 
him  utterly ;  without  balance,  check,  he  was  no  more 
than  an  insensate  force  in  the  grip  of  his  mastering 
passion.  He  would  stop  that  miserable  black  heart 
for  ever.  Old  Valentine  Simmons's  lips  tightened, 
his  ringers  twitched ;  he  turned  his  back  deliberately 
upon  Gordon.  The  metal  buckle  which  held  the 
strap  of  his  waistcoat  caught  the  sun  and  reflected 
it  into  Gordon's  eyes.  "  How  many  gross  pink 
celluloid  rattles  ?"  the  storekeeper  demanded  of  the 
clerk. 

Gordon  Makimmon's  hand  crept  toward  his 
pocket  .  .  .  then  he  remembered — he  had  lost  that 
which  he  sought  ...  on  the  side  of  Cheap 
Mountain.  If  Simmons  would  turn,  say  something 
further,  taunt  him,  he  would  kill  him  with  his  hands. 
But  Simmons  did  none  of  these  things;  instead  he 
walked  slowly,  unharmed,  into  the  store. 


XVI 

GORDON  had  intended  to  avoid  the  vicinity  of 
the  Courthouse  on  the  day  of  the  sale  of  his  home, 
but  an  intangible  attraction  held  him  in  its  neigh- 
bourhood. He  sat  by  the  door  to  the  office  of  the 
Greenstream  Bugle,  diagonally  across  the  street. 
Within,  the  week's  edition  was  going  to  press;  a 
burly  young  individual  was  turning  the  cylinders 
by  hand,  while  the  editor  and  owner  dexterously 
removed  the  printed  sheets  from  the  press.  The 
office  was  indescribably  grimy;  the  rude  ceiling 
was  hung  with  dusty  cobwebs,  the  windows  obscured 
by  a  grey  film.  A  small  footpress  stood  to  the  left 
of  the  entrance ;  on  the  right  were  ranged  typesetters' 
cases  with  high,  precarious  stools,  a  handpress  for 
proof,  and  a  table  to  hold  the  leaded  forms.  These, 
with  the  larger  press,  an  air-tight  sheet  iron 
stove,  and  some  nondescript  chairs,  completed  the 
office  furnishings.  Over  all  hung  the  smell  of 
mingled  grease,  ink,  and  damp  paper,  flat  and 
penetrating. 

Without,  the  sun  shone  ardently;  it  cast  a  rich 
pattern  of  light  and  shade  on  the  Courthouse  lawn 
and  the  small  assemblage  of  merely  idle  or  in- 
terested persons  gathered  for  the  sale.  The  sheriff 
stood  facing  them  under  the  towering  pillars  of  the 
portico ;  his  voice  rang  clearly  through  the  air.  To 

72 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  73 

Gordon  the  occasion,  the  loud  sing-song  of  the 
sheriff,  appeared  unreal,  dreamlike;  he  listened  in- 
credulously to  the  meagre  cataloguing  of  his  dwell- 
ing, the  scant  acreage,  with  an  innate  sense  of  out- 
rage, of  a  shameful  violation  of  his  privacy.  He 
was  still  unable  to  realize  that  his  home  and  his 
father's,  the  clearing  that  his  grandfather  had  cut 
from  the  wild,  was  actually  passing  from  his  pos- 
session. He  summoned  in  vain  the  emotions  which, 
he  told  himself,  were  appropriate.  The  profound 
discouragement  within  him  would  not  be  lifted  to 
emotional  heights:  lassitude  settled  over  him  like  a 
fog. 

The  bidding  began  in  scattered,  desultory  fashion, 
mounting  slowly  by  hundreds.  Eighteen  hundred 
dollars  was  offered,  and  there  the  price  obstinately 
hung. 

The  owner  of  the  Bugle  appeared  at  his  door  and 
nodded  mysteriously  to  Gordon,  who  rose  and  list- 
lessly obeyed  the  summons.  The  other  closed  the 
door  with  great  care  and  lowered  a  faded  and  torn 
shade  over  the  front  window.  Then  he  retired  to  a 
small  space  divided  from  the  body  of  the  office  by 
a  curtain  suspended  from  a  sagging  wire.  He 
brought  his  face  close  to  Gordon's  ear.  "  Have  a 
nip  ?"  he  asked  in  a  solemn,  guarded  fashion. 
Gordon  assented. 

A  bottle  was  produced  from  a  cupboard  and, 
together  with  a  tin  cup,  handed  to  him. 

"  Luck,"  he  pronounced  half-heartedly,  raising 
the  cup  to  his  lips.  When  the  other  had  gone 
through  a  similar  proceeding  the  process  was  care- 
fully reversed — the  bottle  was  returned  to  the  cup- 
board, the  tin  cup  suspended  upon  its  hook,  the 


74  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

steps  retraced,  and  the  curtain  once  more  coaxed  up, 
the  door  thrown  open. 

The  group  on  the  Courthouse  lawn  were  string- 
ing away;  on  the  steps  the  sheriff  was  conversing 
with  Valentine  Simmons's  brother,  a  drab  individual 
who  performed  the  store-keeper's  public  services  and 
errands.  The  sale  had  been  consummated.  The 
long,  loose- jointed  dwelling  accumulated  by  suc- 
cessive generations  of  Makimmons  had  passed  out 
of  their  possession. 

A  poignant  feeling  of  loss  flashed  through 
Gordon's  apathy;  suddenly  his  eyes  burned,  and  an 
involuntary  sharp  inspiration  resembled  a  gasp,  a 
sob.  A  shadow  ran  over  the  earth.  The  owner  of 
the  Bugle  stepped  out  and  gazed  upward.  At  the 
sight  of  the  soft  grey  clouds  assembling  above,  an 
expression  of  determined  purpose  settled  upon  his 
dark  countenance.  He  hurried  into  the  office,  and 
reappeared  a  few  minutes  later,  a  peaked  corduroy 
hat  drawn  over  his  eyes,  a  piece  of  pasteboard  in 
one  hand,  and,  under  his  arm,  a  long  slender  bundle 
folded  in  black  muslin.  The  pasteboard  he  affixed 
to  the  door;  it  said,  "  Gone  fishing.  Back  to- 
morrow." 


XVII 

MINUS  certain  costs  and  the  amount  of  his  in- 
debtedness to  Valentine  Simmons,  Gordon  received 
the  sum  of  one  thousand  and  sixty  dollars  for  the 
sale  of  his  house.  He  was  still  sleeping  in  it,  but 
the  day  was  near  when  he  must  vacate.  The  greater 
part  of  his  effects  was  gathered  under  a  canvas 
cover  on  the  porch.  Clare's  personal  belongings 
were  still  untouched  in  her  room.  He  must  wait 
for  the  disposition  of  those  until  he  had  learned 
the  result  of  the  operation. 

He  heard  from  Clare  on  an  evening  when  he  was 
sitting  on  his  lonely  porch,  twisting  his  dexterous 
cigarettes  and  brooding  darkly  on  the  mischances 
that  had  overtaken  him  of  late.  It  was  hot  and 
steamy  in  the  valley,  no  stars  were  visible ;  the  known 
world,  muffled  in  a  close  and  imponderable  cloak, 
was  without  any  sign  of  life,  of  motion,  of  variety. 
Gordon  heard  footsteps  descending  heavily  from 
the  road;  a  bulky  shape  loomed  up  before  him  and 
disclosed  the  features  of  Dr.  Pelliter. 

He  greeted  Gordon  awkwardly,  and  then  fell 
momentarily  silent.  "  She  sent  you  a  message, 
Gordon,"  he  pronounced  at  last. 

"  Clare's  dead,"  Gordon  replied  involuntarily. 
So  far  away,  he  thought,  and  alone.  .  .  .  He  must 
go  at  once  and  fetch  her  home.  He  rose. 

75 


76  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

"  Clare  said,"  the  doctor  continued,  "  if  your 
sister's  eldest  was  to  come  in,  to  give  her  the  sateen 
waist."  An  extended  silence  fell  upon  the  men;  the 
whippoorwills  sobbed  and  sobbed;  the  stream 
gurgled  past  its  banks.  Then : 

"  By  God  !"  Gordon  said  passionately,  "  I  don't 
know  but  I'm  not  glad  Clare's  gone — Simmons  has 
got  our  house,  I'm  not  driving  stage  .  .  .  Clare 
would  have  sorrowed  herself  out  of  living.  Life's 
no  jig  tune." 

The  doctor  went.  Gordon  continued  to  sit  on  the 
porch;  at  intervals  he  mechanically  rolled  and  lit 
cigarettes,  which  glowed  for  a  moment  and  went  out, 
unsmoked.  The  feeling  of  depression  that  had 
cloaked  him  during  the  few  days  past  changed  im- 
perceptibly to  one  of  callous  indifference  toward 
existence  in  general.  The  seeds  of  revolt,  of  in- 
stability, which  Clare  and  a  measure  of  worldly 
position,  of  pressure,  had  held  in  abeyance, 
germinated  in  his  disorganized  mind,  his  bitter 
sense  of  injustice  and  injury.  He  hardened,  grew 
defiant  .  .  .  the  strain  of  lawlessness  brought  so 
many  years  before  from  warring  Scotch  highlands 
rose  bright  and  troublesome  in  him. 


XVIII 

CLARE'S  body  was  brought  back  to  Greenstream 
on  the  following  day.  His  sister  and  her  numerous 
brood  descended  solicitously  upon  Gordon  later; 
neighbours,  kindly  and  officious,  arrived  .  .  .  Clare 
was  laid  out.  There  were  sibilant  whispered  con- 
versations about  a  mislaid  petticoat  with  a  mechlin 
hem;  drawers  were  searched  and  the  missing 
garment  triumphantly  unearthed;  silk  mitts  were 
discussed,  discarded;  the  white  shoes — real  buck 
and  a  topnotch  article — forced  on.  At  last  Clare 
was  exhibited  in  the  room  that  had  been  hers. 
There  was  no  place  in  the  Makimmon  dwelling  for 
general  assemblage  but  the  kitchen,  and  it  had  been 
pointed  out  by  certain  delicate  souls  that  the  body 
and  the  preparations  for  the  funeral  repast  would 
accord  but  doubtfully.  Besides,  the  kitchen  was 
too  hot. 

Clare's  peaked,  blue-white  countenance  was  with- 
drawn and  strange  above  a  familiar  harsh  black 
silk  dress;  her  hands,  folded  upon  her  fiat  breast, 
lay  in  a  doubled  attitude  dreadfully  impossible  to 
life.  A  thin  locket  of  gold  hung  on  a  chain  about  her 
still  throat.  The  odour  of  June  roses  that  filled  the 
corners,  a  subdued  red  riot  of  the  summer,  the  sun 
without,  was  overpowering. 

As  the  hour  appointed  for  the  funeral  approached, 

77 


78  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

a  gratifying  number  of  people  assembled:  the 
women  clustered  about  the  porch,  hovered  about  the 
door  which  opened  upon  the  remains;  the  men 
gathered  in  a  group  above  the  stream,  lingered  by 
the  fence.  A  row  of  dusty  hooded  vehicles,  rough- 
coated,  intelligent  horses,  were  hitched  above. 

The  minister  took  his  station  by  a  table  on  which 
a  glass  of  water  had  been  placed  upon  a  vivid  red 
cover:  he  portentously  cleared  his  throat.  "The 
Lord  giveth,"  he  began.  ...  It  was  noon, 
pellucidly  clear,  still,  hot;  the  foliage  on  the 
mountain-sides  was  like  solid  walls  of  greenery  rising 
to  a  canopy,  a  veil,  of  azure.  Partridges  whistled 
clear  and  flutelike  from  a  cover  near  by ;  the  stream 
flashed  in  the  sun,  mirroring  on  its  un wrinkled  surface 
the  stiff,  sombre  figures  gathered  for  the  funeral. 

The  droning  voice  of  the  preacher  drew  out  in- 
terminably through  the  sultry  golden  hour. 
Women  sniffed  sharply,  dabbled  with  toil-hardened 
hands  at  their  eyes ;  the  men,  standing  in  the  grass, 
shuffled  their  feet  uneasily.  "  Let  us  pray."  The 
speaker  dropped  upon  his  knees,  and  his  voice  rose, 
grew  more  insistent,  shrill  with  a  touch  of  hysteria. 
From  the  back  of  the  house  a  hen  clucked  in  an 
excited,  aggrieved  manner. 

Gordon  Makimmon  stood  at  the  end  of  the  porch, 
morosely  ill  at  ease :  the  memories  of  Clare  as  a  girl, 
as  a  woman  going  about  and  performing  the  duties 
of  their  home,  the  dignity  of  his  sense  of  loss  and 
sorrow,  had  vanished  before  this  public  ceremony; 
they  had  sunk  to  perfunctory,  conventional  emotions 
before  the  glib  flood  of  the  paid  eulogist,  the  facile 
emotion  of  the  women. 

Suddenly  he  saw,  partially  hidden  by  the  dull 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  79 

dresses  of  the  older  women,  a  white  ruffled  skirt, 
the  turn  of  a  young  shoulder,  a  drooping  straw  hat. 
A  meagre  intervening  form  moved,  and  he  saw  that 
Lettice  Hollidew  had  come  to  his  sister's  funeral. 
He  wondered,  in  a  momentary  instinctive  resent- 
ment, what  had  brought  her  among  this  largely 
negligent  gathering.  She  had  barely  known  Clare; 
Gordon  was  not  certain  that  she  had  ever  been  in 
their  house.  He  could  see  her  plainly  now — she 
stood  clasping  white  gloves  with  firm  pink  hands; 
her  gaze  was  lowered  upon  the  uneven  flooring  of 
the  porch.  He  could  see  the  soft  contour  of  her 
chin,  a  shimmer  of  warm  brown  hair.  She  was 
crisply  fresh,  incredibly  young  in  the  group  of 
gaunt,  worn  forms;  her  ruffled  fairness  was  an 
affront  to  the  thin,  rigid  shoulders  in  rusty  black, 
the  sallow,  deeply-bitten  faces  of  the  other  women. 

She  looked  up  and  surprised  his  intent  gaze:  she 
flushed  slightly,  the  gloves  were  twisted  into  a  knot, 
but  her  eyes  were  unwavering — they  held  an  appeal 
to  his  understanding,  his  sympathy,  not  to  be  mis- 
taken. It  was  evident  that  that  gaze  cost  her  an 
effort.  She  was;  Gordon  remembered,  a  diffident 
girl.  His  resentment  evaporated.  ...  He  specu- 
lated upon  her  reason  for  coming ;  and,  speculating, 
involuntarily  stood  more  erect.  With  a  swift, 
surreptitious  motion  he  straightened  his  necktie. 

The  Greenstream  cemetery  lay  aslant  on  a  rise 
above  the  village.  From  the  side  of  the  raw 
yellow  clay  hole  into  which  they  lowered  the  coffin 
Gordon  could  see,  beyond  the  black  form  of  the 
minister,  over  the  rows  of  uneven  roofs,  the  bulk  of 
the  Courthouse,  the  sweep  of  the  valley,  glowing 
with  multifarious  vitality. 


80  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

:'  Dust  to  dust,"  said  the  minister;  "  ashes  to 
ashes,"  in  the  midst  of  the  warm,  the  resplendent, 
the  palpitating  day.  One  of  Gordon's  nephews— 
a  shock  of  tow  hair  rising  rebellious  against  an 
application  of  soap,  stubby,  scarred  hands,  shoes 
obviously  come  by  in  their  descent  from  more 
mature  extremities — who  had  been  audibly  snuffling 
for  the  past  ten  minutes,  burst  into  a  lugubrious, 
frightened  wail.  Through  the  solemn,  appointed 
periods  of  the  minister  cut  the  sibilant,  maternal 
promise  of  a  famous  "  whopping." 


XIX 

GORDON  thought  again  of  Lettice  Hollidew  as  he 
was  sitting  for  the  last  evening  on  the  porch  of  the 
dwelling  that  had  passed  out  of  his  hands.  Twilight 
had  poured  through  the  valley,  thickening  beneath 
the  trees,  over  the  stream ;  the  mountain  ranges  were 
dark,  dusty  blue  against  a  maroon- sky.  He  recalled 
the  sympathy,  the  plea  for  comprehension,  in 
Lettice 's  gaze,  lifted,  for  the  first  time,  frankly 
against  his  own. 

Hers  was  not  the  feminine  type  which  attracted 
him;  he  preferred  a  more  flamboyant  beauty,  ready 
repartee,  the  conscious  presence  and  employment  of 
the  lure  of  sex.  His  taste  had  been  fed  by  the  paid 
women  of  Stenton,  the  few  blowsy,  loose  females  of 
the  mountains ;  these  and  the  surface  chatter  of  the 
stage,  and  Clare,  formed  his  sole  knowledge,  ex- 
perience, surmising,  of  women.  He  recalled  Lettice 
condescendingly;  she  did  not  stir  his  pulses,  appeal 
to  his  imagination.  Yet  she  moved  his  pride,  his  in- 
ordinate self-esteem.  It  had  been  on  his  account, 
and  not  Clare's,  that  she  had  come  to  the  funeral. 
The  little  affair  with  Buckley  Simmons  had 
captured  her  attention  and  interest;  he  had  not 
thought  Lettice  so  impressionable. 

It  was,  he  remembered,  Wednesday  night — there 
would  be  prayer-meeting  in  the  Methodist  Church; 

81  6 


82  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

the  Hollidews  were  Methodists ;  women,  mostly,  at- 
tended prayer-meeting.  If  he  strolled  about  in  that 
vicinity  he  might  see  Lettice  at  the  close  of  the 
service,  thank  her  for  attending  poor  Clare's  funeral. 

He  rose  and  negligently  made  his  way  through 
the  soft  gloom  past  the  Courthouse  to  the  Methodist 
Church.  The  double  doors  were  open,  and  a  flood 
of  hot  radiance  rolled  out  into  the  night,  together 
with  the  familiar  tones  of  old  Martin  Seger  loudly 
importuning  his  invisible,  inscrutable  Maker. 
There  were  no  houses  opposite  the  church,  and, 
balanced  obscurely  on  the  fence  of  split  rails 
against  the  unrelieved  night,  a  row  of  young  men 
smoked  redly  glowing  cigarettes;  while,  on  the 
ground  below  them,  shone  the  lanterns  by  the  aid 
of  which  they  escorted  the  various  maidens  of  their 
choice  on  their  various  obscure  ways. 

The  prayer  stopped  abruptly,  and,  after  a 
momentary  silence,  the  dolorous  wail  of  a  small 
organ  abetted  a  stridulent  concourse  of  human 
voices  lifted  in  lamentable  song,  a  song  in  which 
they  were  desirous  of  being  winged  like  the  dove. 

The  sound  mounted  in  a  grievous  minor  into  the 
profound  stillness,  the  peace,  of  the  valley,  of  the 
garment  of  stars  drawn  from  wall  to  wall.  There 
was  something  animal-like  in  its  long-drawn, 
quavering  note — like  the  baying  of  a  dog,  out  of 
the  midst  of  his  troubled  darkness,  at  the  remote 
silver  serenity,  the  disturbing,  effortless  splendour, 
of  the  moon. 

The  line  of  figures  without,  sitting  on  the  fence 
with  their  feet  caught  under  the  second  rail,  smoked 
in  imperturbable  masculine  indifference.  There 
was,  shortly,  a  stir  within,  a  moving  blur  of  figures 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  83 

in  the  opened  doors,  and  the  lanterns  swung  alertly 
to  the  foot  of  the  steps,  where,  one  by  one,  the 
bobbing  lights,  detached  from  the  constellation, 
vanished  into  the  night. 

Almost  immediately  Gordon  saw  Lettice  Hollidew 
standing  at  the  entrance,  awaiting  a  conversing 
group  of  older  women  at  the  head  of  the  aisle.  She 
recognized  him  and  descended  immediately  with  a 
faint,  questioning  smile.  The  smile  vanished  as  she 
greeted  him;  her  eyes  were  dark  on  a  pale,  still 
countenance.  He  noticed  that  she  was  without  the 
heady  perfume  which  stirred  him  as  the  other 
girls  passed,  and  he  was  silently  critical  of  the 
omission. 

He  delivered  quickly,  with  a  covert  glance  above, 
the  customary  period  about  seeing  her  home.  Im- 
mediately she  walked  with  him  into  the  obscurity, 
the  mystery,  of  the  night. 

"  It  was  certainly  nice-hearted  of  you  to  come  to 
Clare's  funeral,"  he  began. 

Close  beside  him  she  shivered,  it  might  be  at  the 
memory  of  that  occasion.  She  was  without  a  hat, 
and  he  was  able  to  study  her  profile :  it  was  irregu- 
lar, with  a  low,  girlish  brow  and  a  nose  too  heavy  for 
beauty;  she  had  a  full  under  lip  and  a  strongly 
modelled  chin,  a  firm  line  ending  in  a  generous 
throat,  milk-white  in  the  gloom.  Her  figure  too,  he 
judged,  was  too  heavy  for  his  standard  of  feminine 
charm.  His  interest  in  her  burned  low,  sustained 
only  by  what  he  recognized  as  a  conquest. 

She  walked  slowly  and  more  slowly  as  he  dallied 
by  her  side.  Almost  subconsciously  he  adopted  the 
tone  by  which  he  endeavoured  to  enlist  the  interest 
of  the  opposite  sex:  he  repeated  in  a  perfunctory 


84  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

manner  the  stereotyped  remarks  appropriate  for 
such  occasions. 

She  listened  intently,  with  sudden  little  glances 
from  a  momentarily  lifted  gaze.  He  grew  im- 
patient at  the  absence  of  the  flattering  responses  to 
which  he  was  largely  accustomed.  And,  dropping 
abruptly  his  artificial  courtesy,  he  maintained  a 
sullen  silence,  quickened  his  stride.  He  drew 
some  satisfaction  from  the  observation  that  his 
reticence  hurt  her.  Her  hands  caught  and  strained 
together ;  she  looked  at  him  with  a  longer,  question- 
ing gaze. 

"  I  wanted  to  tell  you,"  she  said  finally,  with 
palpable  difficulty,  "  how  sorry  I  am  about  .  .  . 
about  things;  your  home,  and — and  I  heard  of  the 
stage,  too.  It  was  a  shame ;  you  drove  beautifully, 
and  took  such  care  of  the  passengers." 

"  It  was  that  care  cost  me  the  place,"  he  answered 
with  brutal  directness;  "  old  Simmons  did  it;  him 
and  his  precious  Buckley." 

She  stopped  with  an  expression  of  instantly  deep 
concern.  "  Oh  !  I  am  so  sorry  .  .  .  then  it  was 
my  fault.  But  it's  horrid  that  they  should  have 
done  that;  that  they  should  be  able;  it  is  all 
wrong 

"  Right  nor  wrong  don't  make  any  figure  I've  ever 
discovered,"  he  retorted;  "  Valentine  Simmons  has 
the  power,  he's  got  the  money.  That's  it — money's 
the  right  of  things ;  it  took  my  house  away  from  me, 
like  it's  taken  away  so  many  houses,  so  many  farms, 
in  Greenstream — 

"  But,"  she  objected  timidly,  "  didn't  they  owe 
Mr.  Simmons  for  things  ?  You  see,  people  borrow, 
borrow,  borrow,  and  never  pay  back.  My  father," 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  85 

she  proceeded  with  more  confusion,  "  has  lost  lots  of 
money  in  that  way." 

"  I  can  tell  you  all  about  that,"  he  informed  her 

»/  * 

bitterly,  proceeding  to  mimic  Simmons's  dry,  cordial 
tones.  '  '  Take  the  goods  right  along  with  you ;  pay 
when  you  like;  no  hurry  between  old  friends.' 
Then,  when  Zebener  Hull's  corn  failed,  '  I'll  trouble 
you  for  that  amount,'  the  skinflint  says,  and  sells 
Zebener  out.  And  what  your  father's  lost,"  he 
added  more  directly  still,  "  wouldn't  take  you  on 
the  stage  to  Stenton.  Your  father  and  Simmons 
have  got  about  everything  worth  getting  in  the 
county ;  they've  got  the  money,  they've  got  the  land, 
they've  got  the  men  right  in  their  iron  safes.  Right 
and  wrong  !"  he  sneered;  "  it's  money : 

"  Oh  !  please,"  she  begged,  "  please  don't  be  so 
unhappy,  so  hard.  Life  isn't  as  dreadful  as  that." 

"  It's  worse,"  he  declared  sombrely.  They  turned 
by  Simmons's  store,  but  continued  in  the  opposite 
direction  from  the  one-time  Makimmon  dwelling. 
They  passed  a  hedge  of  roses;  the  perfume  hung 
heavy-sweet,  poignant ;  there  was  apparently  no  sky, 
no  earth,  only  a  close  purple  envelopment,  im- 
minent, palpable,  lying  languidly,  unstirring,  in  a 
space  without  form  or  limit  and  of  one  colour. 

Lettice  walked  silently  by  his  side ;  he  could  hear 
her  breathing,  irregular,  quick.  She  was  very  close 
to  him,  then  moved  suddenly,  consciously,  away; 
but,  almost  immediately,  she  drifted  back,  brushing 
his  shoulder ;  it  seemed  that  she  returned  inevitably, 
blindly;  in  the  gloom  her  gown  fluttered  like  the 
soft  white  wings  of  a  moth  against  him. 

'  It's  worse,"  he  repeated,  his  voice  loud  and 
harsh,  like  a  discordant  bell  clashing  in  the  sostenuto 


86  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

passage  of  a  symphony;  "but  it's  all  one  to  me 
— there's  nothing  else  they  can  take;  I'm  free,  free 
to  sleep  or  wake,  to  be  drunk  when  I  like  with  no 
responsibility  to  Simmons  or  any  one  else " 

Her  breathing  increasingly  grew  laboured,  op- 
pressed ;  a  little  sob  escaped,  softly  miserable.  She 
was  crying.  He  was  completely  callous,  in- 
different. They  stood  before  the  dark  porchless 
fayade  of  her  home. 

"  I  thought  life  was  so  happy,"  she  articulated, 
facing  him;  "  but  now  it  hurts  me  .  .  .  here;"  he 
saw  her  press  her  hand  against  the  swelling,  tender 
line  of  her  breast.  His  theatrical  self-consciousness 
bowed  him  over  the  other  hand,  pressing  upon  it  a 
half-calculated  kiss.  She  stood  motionless ;  he  felt 
rather  than  saw  the  intensity  of  her  gaze.  "  I  wish 
I  could  mend  the  hurt,"  he  began,  appropriately, 
professionally. 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  figure  emerging  from 
the  obscurity  of  the  house.  Pompey  Hollidew 
peered  at  them  from  the  low  stone  lintel.  "  Letty," 
he  pronounced,  in  a  voice  at  once  whining  and 
truculent;  "who? — oh!  that  Makimmon.  .  .  . 
Letty,  come  in  the  house."  He  caught  her  arm 
and  dragged  her  incontinently  toward  the  door. 
"...  rascal,"  Gordon  heard  him  mutter,  "  spend- 
thrift. If  you  ever  walk  again  with  Gordon 
Makimmon,"  the  old  man,  through  his  daughter, 
addressed  the  other,  "  don't  walk  back  here,  don't 
come  home.  Not  a  dollar  of  mine  shall  fall  through 
the  pockets  of  that  shiftless  breed." 


XX 

CLAEE'S  funeral  deducted  a  further  sum  from  the 
amount  Gordon  had  received  for  the  sale  of  his 
home,  but  he  had  left  still  nine  hundred  and  odd 
dollars.  He  revolved  in  his  mind  the  disposition 
of  this  sum,  once  more  sitting  with  chair  tilted  back 
against  the  dingy  wooden  home  of  the  Greenstream 
Bugle  ;  he  rehearsed  its  possibilities  for  frugality, 
for  independence,  as  a  reserve  ...  or  for  pleasure. 
It  was  the  hottest  hour  of  the  day;  the  prospect 
before  him,  the  uneven  street,  the  houses  beyond, 
were  coated  with  dust,  gilded  by  the  refulgent  sun. 
No  one  stirred;  a  red  cow  that  had  been  cropping 
the  grass  in  the  broad,  shallow  gutter  opposite  sank 
down  in  the  meagre  shadow  of  a  chance  pear  tree; 
even  the  children  were  absent,  the  piercing  staccato 
cries  of  their  games  unheard. 

To  Gordon  Makimmon  Greenstream  suddenly 
appeared  insufferably  dull,  empty;  the  thought  of 
monotonous,  identical  days  spun  thinly  out,  the 
nine  hundred  dollars  extended  to  its  greatest  length, 
in  that  banal  setting,  suddenly  grew  unbearable. 
.  .  .  There  was  no  life  in  Greenstream.  .  .  . 

The  following  morning  found  him  on  the  front 
seat  of  the  Stenton  stage,  sharing  with  the  driver 
not  his  customary  cigarettes,  but  more  portentous 
cigars  from  an  ample  pocketful.  "  Greenstream's 

87 


88  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

dead,"  lie  pronounced;  "  I'm  going  after  some 
life." 

Late  that  night  he  leaned  across  the  sloppy  bar 
of  an  inferior  saloon  in  Stenton  and,  with  an 
uncertain  wave  of  his  hand,  arrested  the  bar- 
keeper's attention.  "I'm  here,"  he  articulated 
thickly,  "  to  see  life,  understand  !  And  I  can  see  it 
too — money's  power."  The  other  regarded  him 
with  a  brief,  mechanical  interest,  a  platitude  shot 
suavely  from  hard  tobacco-stained  lips. 

Later  still:  "I'm  here  to  see  life,"  he  told  a 
woman  with  a  chalky  countenance,  a  countenance 
without  any  expression  of  the  consciousness  of  the 
sound  of  his  voice,  a  vague  form  lost  in  loose 
draperies.  "  Life,"  he  emphasized  above  the 
continuous  macabre  rattle  of  a  piano. 

In  a  breathless  hot  dawn  pouring  redly  into  the 
grey  city  street,  he  swayed  like  a  pendulum  on  the 
steaming  pavement.  His  side  was  smeared,  caked, 
with  unnamable  filth,  refuse;  a  tremulous  hand 
gripped  feverishly  the  shoulder  of  a  policeman  who 
had  roused  him  from  a  constrained  stupor  in  a  casual 
angle.  "  I  wan'  to  see  life,"  he  mumbled  dully,  "  I 
got  power  .  .  .  money."  He  fumbled  through  his 
pockets  in  search  of  the  proof  of  his  assertion.  In 
vain — all  that  was  left  of  the  nine  hundred  and  sixty 
dollars  was  some  loose  silver. 


XXI 

AGAIN  sober,  without  the  resources  of  the  city -bred 
parasite,  and  without  money,  his  instinct,  his 
longing  drew  him  irresistibly  into  the  open;  his 
heredity  forced  him  toward  the  mountains,  into 
familiar  paths,  valleys,  heights. 

He  avoided  the  stage  road  and  progressed  toward 
Greenstream  by  tangled  trails,  rocky  ascents,  sharp 
declines.  By  late  day  he  had  penetrated  to  the  heart 
of  the  upland  region.  He  stood  gazing  down  upon 
the  undulating,  verdant  hills,  over  which  he  could 
trace  the  course  of  a  thunder  gust.  The  storm 
moved  swiftly,  in  a  compact  circular  shadow  on  the 
sunny  slope ;  he  could  distinguish  the  sudden  twist- 
ing of  limbs,  the  path  of  torn  leaves,  broken 
branches,  left  by  the  lash  of  the  wind  and  rain.  The 
livid,  sinister  spot  on  the  placid  greenery  drew 
nearer ;  he  could  now  hear  the  continuous  rumble  of 
thunder,  see  the  stabbing  purplish  flashes  of  light- 
ning. The  edge  of  the  storm  swept  darkly  over  the 
spot  where  he  was  standing;  he  was  soaked  by  a 
momentary  assault  of  rain  driving  greyly  out  of  a 
passing  profound  gloom.  Then  the  cloud  vanished, 
leaving  the  countryside  sparkling  and  serene  under 
a  stainless  evening  sky. 

The  water  dripped  down  his  back,  swashed  in  his 
shoes ;  he  was,  in  his  lowered  vitality,  supremely  un- 

89 


90  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

comfortable.  The  way  was  slippery  with  mud ;  wet 
leaves  bathed  his  face  in  sudden  chill  showers,  clung 
to  his  hands.  He  fell. 

When  he  arrived  at  the  rim  of  Greenstream,  night 
had  hidden  that  familiar,  welcome  vista.  The 
lights  of  the  houses  shone  pale  yellow  below.  A 
new  reluctance  to  enter  this  place  of  home  pos- 
sessed him,  a  shame  born  of  his  denuded  pockets, 
his  bedraggled  exterior.  He  descended,  but  turned 
to  the  left,  finding  a  rude  road  which  skirted  the 
base  of  the  eastern  range.  He  was  following  no 
definite  plan,  moving  slowly,  without  objective;  but 
a  window  glimmering  in  a  square  of  orange  light 
against  the  night  brought  him  to  a  halt.  It  marked, 
he  knew,  the  dwelling  of  the  Jesuit  priest,  Merlier. 
In  a  sudden  impulse  he  advanced  over  a  short  path 
and,  fumbling,  found  the  door,  where  he  knocked. 
A  chair  scraped  within  and  the  door  swung  open. 
The  form  of  the  priest  was  dark  against  the  lighted 
interior  which  absorbed  them. 


XXII 

THE  room  was  singularly  bare:  a  tin  lamp  with  a 
green  glass  shade,  on  an  uncovered  deal  table, 
illuminated  an  open  book,  wood  chairs  with  roughly 
split  hickory  backs,  a  couch  with  no  covering  over 
its  wire  springs  and  iron  frame;  there  was  no 
carpet  on  the  floor  of  loosely  grooved  boards,  no 
decorations  on  the  plastered  walls  save  a  dark 
engraving  of  a  man  in  intricate  armour,  with  a  face 
as  passionate,  as  keen,  as  relentless,  as  a  hawk's, 
labelled,  "  Loyola." 

Merlier  silently  indicated  a  chair,  but  he  re- 
mained standing  with  his  gaze  lowered  upon 
the  floor.  He  was  a  burly  man,  with  a  heavy 
countenance  impassive  as  an  Oriental's,  out  of 
which,  startling  in  its  unexpected  rapidity,  a  glance 
flashed  and  stabbed,  as  steely  as  Loyola's  sword. 
His  hands  were  clasped  before  him;  they  were,  in 
that  environment,  strangely  white,  and  covered 
with  the  scars  of  what,  patently,  were  unaccustomed 
employments. 

"  It  feels  good  inside,"  Gordon  observed  tritely. 
He  noted  uneasily  the  muddy  tracks  his  shoes  had 
printed  upon  the  otherwise  spotless  board  floor. 
"  I  got  caught  in  a  gust  on  the  mountain,"  he  ex- 
plained awkwardly,  in  a  constraint  which  deepened 
with  the  other's  continued  silence;  "  I  ought  to  have 

91 


92  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

cleaned  up  before  I  came  in  ...  it's  terrible  dark 
out."  He  rose,  tentatively,  but  the  priest  waved 
him  back  into  the  chair.  Opening  a  door  opposite 
the  one  by  which  Gordon  had  entered,  and  which 
obviously  gave  upon  an  outer  shed,  Merlier  pro- 
cured a  roughly  made  mop;  and,  returning,  he 
obliterated  all  traces  of  the  mud.  Suddenly,  to 
Gordon's  dismay,  his  supreme  discomfort,  he  stooped 
to  a  knee,  and  began  to  remove  the  former's 
shoes. 

"  Hey  !"  Gordon  protested;  "  don't  do  that;  I  can 
tend  to  my  own  feet. ' '  He  was  prepared  to  kick  out, 
but  he  recognized  that  a  struggle  could  only  make 
the  situation  insufferable,  and  he  submitted  in  an 
acute,  writhing  misery  to  the  ministrations.  The 
priest  rose  with  Gordon's  shoes  and  placed  them, 
together  with  the  mop,  outside  the  door.  He  then 
brought  from  an  inner  room  an  immaculate  white 
cambric  shirt,  a  pair  of  trousers,  old  but  carefully 
ironed,  and  knitted  grey  worsted  slippers. 

"  It  you  will  change,"  he  said  in  a  low,  im- 
personal voice,  "  I  will  see  what  there  is  for  you  to 
eat."  He  left  the  room,  and  Gordon  gratefully 
shifted  into  the  fresh,  dry  clothes.  The  trousers 
were  far  too  large;  they  belonged,  he  recognized, 
to  the  priest,  but  he  belted  them  into  baggy  folds. 
The  other  appeared  shortly  with  a  wooden  tray  bear- 
ing a  platter  of  cooked  yellow  beans,  a  part  loaf  of 
coarse  bread,  raw  eggs,  and  a  pitcher  of  milk.  "  I 
thought,"  he  explained,  "  you  would  wish  something 
immediately;  there  is  no  fire;  Bartamon  is  out." 
The  latter,  Gordon  knew,  was  a  sharp-witted  old 
man  who  had  made  a  precarious  living  in  the  local 
fields  and  woodsheds  until  the  priest  had  taken  him 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  93 

as  a  general  helper.      '  There  is  neither  coffee  nor 
tea  in  the  house,"  Merlier  stated  further. 

He  closed  the  book,  moved  the  lamp  to  the  end 
of  the  table,  and  stood  with  his  countenance  lowered, 
his  folded  hands  immovable  as  stone,  while  Gordon 
Makimmon  consumed  the  cold  food.  Once  the 
priest  replenished  the  other's  glass  with  milk. 

If  there  had  been  a  gleam  of  fraternal  feeling, 
the  slightest  indication  of  generous  impulse,  a  mere 
accent  of  hospitality,  in  the  priest's  actions,  Gordon, 
accepting  them  in  such  spirit,  might  have  been  at 
ease.  But  not  the  faintest  spark  of  interest,  of  curi- 
osity, the  most  perfunctory  communion  of  sympathy, 
was  evident  on  Merlier's  immobile  countenance ;  his 
movements  were  machine-like,  he  seemed  infinitely 
removed  from  his  charitable  act,  infinitely  cold. 

Gordon's  discomfort  burned  into  a  species  of 
illogical,  resentful  anger.  He  cursed  the  priest  under 
his  breath,  choked  on  the  food;  he  was  heartily 
sorry  that  he  had  obeyed  the  fleeting  impulse  to 
enter.  But  even  the  anger  expired  before  Merlier's 
impassivity — he  might  as  well  curse  a  figure  carved 
from  granite,  cast  in  lead.  He  grew,  in  turn, 
uneasy  at  the  other's  supernatural  detachment;  it 
chilled  his  blood  like  the  grip  of  an  unexpected,  icy 
hand,  like  the  imminence  of  inevitable  death.  The 
priest  resembled  a  dead  man,  a  dead  man  who  had 
remained  quick  in  the  mere  physical  operations  of 
the  body,  while  all  the  machinerv  of  his  thoughts, 

•/    *  v  O  * 

his  feelings,  lay  motionless  and  cold  within. 

Gordon  found  relief  in  a  customary  cigarette  when 
the  uncomfortable  repast  was  finished.  The  priest 
removed  the  dishes  and  reappeared  with  bed  linen, 
with  which  he  proceeded  to  convert  the  bare  couch 


94  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

into  a  provision  for  sleeping.  Then  he  returned 
the  lamp  to  the  centre  of  the  table,  opened  the  book, 
and,  seated  with  his  back  squarely  toward  the  room, 
addressed  himself  to  the  pages. 

Gordon  Makimmon's  head  throbbed,  suddenly 
paining  him — it  was  as  though  sharp,  malicious 
fingers  were  compressing  the  spine  at  the  base  of  his 
brain.  That,  and  the  profound  weariness  which 
swept  over  him,  were  disconcerting;  he  was  so 
seldom  ill,  so  rarely  tired,  that  those  unwelcome 
symptoms  bore  an  aggravated  menace;  it  was  the 
slight  premonitory  rusting,  the  corrosion  of  time, 
upon  the  iron  of  his  manhood. 

In  an  instinctive  need  for  human  support,  the 
reassurance  of  the  comprehension  of  his  kind,  he 
directed  an  observation  at  the  broad,  squat,  sombre 
back.  "  I  might  have  been  drunk  a  month,"  he 
asserted,  "  by  the  way  I  feel."  The  priest  paused 
in  his  reading,  inserted  a  finger  in  the  page,  and  half 
turned.  Gordon  could  see  the  full  smooth  cheek, 
the  drooping  gaze,  against  the  green  radiance  of  the 
lamp. 

"  If  you  will  drink,"  Merlier  said  in  a  bitter,  re- 
pressed voice,  "  if  you  will  indulge  the  flesh,  don't 
whimper  at  the  price."  He  made  a  gesture,  indi- 
cating the  bed,  then  returned  to  his  reading. 

"  The  man  doesn't  live  who's  heard  me  whimper," 
Gordon  began  loudly ;  but  his  angry  protest  trailed 
into  silence.  There  was  no  comfort,  no  redress,  to 
be  obtained  from  that  absorbed,  ungainly  figure. 
He  slipped  out  of  the  baggy  trousers,  the  worsted 
slippers,  and,  extending  himself  on  the  couch,  fell 
heavily  asleep. 


XXIII 

WHEN  he  woke  the  room  was  bright  with  narrow 
strips  of  sun,  already  too  high  to  shine  broadly 
through  the  doors  and  windows.  His  clothes,  dry 
and  comparatively  clean,  reposed  on  a  chair  at  his 
side,  and,  washing  in  the  basin  which  he  found 
outside  the  door,  he  hastily  dressed.  He  looked, 
tentatively,  for  the  priest,  but  found  only  his  aged 
helper  in  the  roughly-cleared  space  at  the  back  of  the 
house. 

Bartamon  was  a  small  man,  with  a  skull-like 
head,  to  the  hollows  of  which,  the  bony  projections, 
dark  skin  clung  dryly;  his  eyes  were  mere  dimming 
glints  of  watery  consciousness ;  and  from  the  sleeves 
of  a  faded  blue  shirt,  the  folds  of  formless  canvas 
trousers,  knotted,  blackish  hands,  grotesque  feet, 
appeared  to  hang  jerking  on  wires. 

'  Where's  the  Father  ?"  Gordon  inquired. 

The  other  rested  from  the  laborious  sawing  of  a 
log,  blinking  and  tremulous  in  the  hard  brilliancy  of 
midday.  "  Beyond,"  he  answered  vaguely,  waving 
up  the  valley;  "  Sim  Caley's  wife  sent  for  him  from 
Hollidew's  farm.  Sim  or  his  wife  think  they're 
going  to  die  two  or  three  times  the  year,  and  bother 
the  Father.  .  .  .  But  I  wouldn't  wonder  they 
would,  and  them  working  for  Hollidew,  dawn,  day, 
and  dark,  with  never  a  proper  skinful  of  food,  only 

95 


96  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

this  and  that,  maybe,  chick'ry  and  fat  pork  and 
mouldy  ends  of  nothing." 

He  filled  the  blackened  ruin  of  a  pipe,  shaking  in 
his  palsied  fingers,  clasped  it  in  mumbling,  toothless 
gums:  he  was  so  sere,  so  juiceless,  that  the  smoke 
trailing  from  his  sunken  lips  might  well  have  been 
the  spontaneous  conflagration  of  his  desiccated 
interior. 

"  Hollidew's  a  terrible  man  for  money,"  he  con- 
tinued; "  it  hurts  him  like  a  cut  with  a  hick'ry  to 
see  a  dollar  go.  They  say  he  won't  hear  tell  of 
quitting  his  fortune  for  purgatory,  no,  nor  for 
heaven  neither.  He  can't  get  him  to  make  a  will, 
the  lawyer  can't.  He  was  telling  the  Father  the 
other  day,  sitting  right  in  the  house  there,  '  Pompey 
Hollidew,'  he  says,  *  won't  even  talk  will.  .  .  .' 
He'd  like  to  take  it  all  with  him  to  the  devil,  Pompey 
would."  He  turned  with  a  sigh  to  the  log.  Across- 
cut  saw,  with  a  handle  at  either  end,  lay  upon  the 
ground;  and  Gordon,  grasping  the  far  handle, 
helped  him  to  drag  the  slim,  glittering  steel  through 
the  powdering  fibre  of  the  wood. 

As  he  worked  mechanically  Gordon's  thoughts  re- 
turned to  the  past,  the  past  which  had  collapsed 
so  utterly,  so  disastrously,  so  swiftly  upon  his  com- 
placency, robbing  him  of  his  sustenance,  of  Clare,  of 
his  home.  The  complaining  voice  of  the  old  man 
finally  pierced  his  abstraction.  "  If  you  are  going 
to  ride,"  Bartamon  complained,  "  don't  drag  your 
feet." 

The  two  men  consumed  a  formless,  ample  meal, 
after  which  Gordon  still  waited  negligently  for  the 
priest.  The  sun  sank  toward  the  western  range; 
the  late  afternoon  grew  as  hushed,  as  rich  in  colour, 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  97 

in  vert  shadows,  ultramarine,  and  amber,  as  heavy 
in  foliage  bathed  in  aureate  light,  as  the  nave  of  a 
cathedral  under  stained  glass. 

In  a  corner  of  the  shed  Gordon  found  a  fishing 
rod  of  split  bamboo,  sprung  with  time  and  neglect, 
the  wrappings  hanging  and  effectually  loose.  A 
small  brass  reel  was  fastened  to  the  butt,  holding 
an  amount  of  line.  He  balanced  the  rod  in  his 
grasp,  discovering  it  to  be  the  property  of  the 
old  man. 

"  What '11  you  take  for  it  ?"  he  demanded.  His 
store  of  money  had  been  reduced  to  a  precarious  sum 
of  silver;  but  the  longing  had  seized  him  to  fish  in 
the  open,  to  follow  a  stream  into  the  tranquil  dusk. 

"  I  got  some  flies  too."  The  other  resurrected  a 
cigar  box,  which  held  some  feathered  hooks  attached 
to  doubtful  guts.  "  They  are  dried  out,"  Gordon 
pronounced,  testing  them;  "  what  will  you  take  for 
the  whole  worthless  lot  ?"  Bartamon  demurred: 
the  rod  had  been  a  good  rod,  it  had  been  given  to 
him  in  the  past  by  a  mayor,  or  had  it  been  a  senator  ? 
It  was  not  like  common  rods,  made  of  six  strips  of 
bamboo,  but  of  eight;  the  line  was  silk.  .  .  .  He 
would  take  sixty  cents. 

Delaying  his  expression  of  gratitude  to  the  priest 
— he  could  stop  on  his  return  with  trout. — Gordon 
was  soon  tramping  over  the  soft,  dusty  road  to  where 
he  bordered  a  stream  skirting  the  eastern  range. 
A  shelf  of  pasturage  ran,  deep  blue-green  sod, 
against  the  rocky  wall ;  to  the  left,  through  scattered 
trees,  the  valley  was  visible ;  on  the  right  the  range 
mounted  precipitant,  verdant,  to  its  far  crown.  The 
stream,  now  torn  to  white  foam  on  a  rocky  descent, 
now  swept  with  a  glassy  rush  between  level  green 

7 


98  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

banks,  now  moved  slowly  in  a  deep-shaded  pool, 
where  gleaming  bubbles  held  filmed  sliding  replicas 
of  the  banks,  the  trees,  the  sky. 

The  sun,  growing  less  a  source  of  light  than  a 
brilliant  circle  of  carmine,  almost  touched  the 
western  range;  the  shadow  troop  swept  down  the 
slope  and  lengthened  across  the  valley;  cut  by  the 
trunks  of  trees,  the  light  fell  in  dusty  gold  bars  across 
the  water.  Gordon  drew  the  line  through  the 
dipping  tip,  knotting  on  three  of  the  flies.  Then  he 
quietly  followed  the  stream  to  where  it  fell  into  a 
circular  stone-bound  basin.  He  made  his  cast  with 
a  quick  turn  of  the  wrist,  skilfully  avoiding  the 
high  underbrush,  the  overhanging  limbs.  The  flies 
swung  out  and  dropped  softly  on  the  water.  On 
the  second  cast  he  caught  a  trout — a  silvery,  gleam- 
ing shape  flecked  with  vermilion  and  black,  shaded 
with  mauve  and  emerald  and  maroon. 

In  a  shallow  reach  he  waded,  forgetful  of  his 
clothes.  He  caught  another  trout,  another  and 
another,  stringing  them  on  a  green  withe.  He  cast 
indef  atigably,  but  with  the  greatest  possible  economy 
of  effort;  his  progress  was  all  but  soundless;  he 
slipped  down  stream  like  a  thing  of  the  woods,  fish- 
ing with  delicate  art,  with  ardour,  with  ingenuity, 
and  with  continual  success. 

The  sun  disappeared  in  a  primrose  void  behind 
the  darkening  mountains;  the  hush  deepened  upon 
the  valley,  a  hush  in  which  the  voice  of  the  stream 
was  audible,  cool — a  sound  immemorially  old, 
lingering  from  the  timeless  past  through  vast,  dim 
changes,  cataclysms,  carrying  the  melancholy, 
eloquent,  incomprehensible  plaint  of  primitive 
nature. 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  99 

Gordon  was  absorbed,  content;  the  quiet,  the 
magic  veil  of  oblivion,  of  the  woods,  of  the  immobile 
mountains,  enveloped  and  soothed  him,  released 
his  heart  from  its  oppression,  banished  the  fever,  the 
struggle,  from  his  brain.  The  barrier  against 
which  he  still  fished  was  mauve,  the  water  black ;  the 
moon  appeared  buoyantly,  like  a  rosy  bubble  blown 
upon  a  curtain  of  old  blue  velvet.  He  cast  once 
more,  and  met  his  last  strike,  a  heavy  jar  that  broke 
the  weakened  line,  in  a  broad,  still  expanse  where 
white  moths  fluttered  above  the  water  in  a  cold 
stagnant  gloom.  He  saw  the  rotting  wall  of  a 
primitive  dam,  the  crumbling,  fallen  sides  of  a  rude 
mill.  Night  fell  augustly.  The  whippoorwills  cried 
faint  and  distant. 

He  sat  on  a  log,  draining  his  shoes,  pressing  the 
water  from  his  trousers,  and  smoked  while  the  light 
of  the  moon  brightened  into  a  silvery  radiance  in 
which  objects,  trees,  were  greyly  visible;  reaches 
sank  into  soft  obscurity.  He  recognized  his  position 
from  the  ruined  mill — he  was  on  the  edge  of  that 
farm  of  Pompey  Hollidew's  of  which  Bartamon  had 
spoken.  Hollidew,  he  knew,  seldom  visited  his  out- 
lying acres,  and  then  only  in  the  collection  of  rents 
or  profits — they  lay  too  far  from  his  iron  chest,  from 
the  communication  of  the  Stenton  banks.  Gordon 
knew  Sim  Caley,  and,  suddenly,  he  decided  to  visit 
him;  the  trout  would  afford  the  Caleys  and  himself 
an  ample  repast. 

He  crossed  the  road,  made  his  way  through  a 
fragrant  tangle  of  field  grass,  over  shorn  and  orderly 
acres  of  grazing.  The  moon  rose  higher,  grew 
brighter;  the  vistas  were  clear,  unreal,  the  shadows 
like  spilled  ink.  The  house  toward  which  he  moved 


100  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

stood  sharply  defined  and  enclosed  by  a  fence, 
flowers,  from  the  farm.  As  he  approached  he  saw 
that  no  lights  were  visible,  but  a  blur  of  white  moved 
in  the  shadow  of  the  portico.  He  decided  that  it 
was  Sim  Caley's  wife;  and,  opening  the  gate, 
advanced  with  a  query  for  Mrs.  Caley's  health 
forming  on  his  lips. 

But  it  was  Lettice  Hollidew. 


XXIV 

SHE  retreated,  as  lie  advanced,  within  the  deeper 
obscurity  of  an  opened  door,  but  he  had  seen,  in 
the  shimmering,  elusive  light,  her  features,  gathered 
the  unmistakable,  intangible  impression  of  her 
person. 

"  It's  me — -Gordon  Makimmon,"  he  said.  He 
paused  by  the  step,  on  which  he  laid  the  trout, 
shining  with  sudden  liquid  gleams  of  silver  in  the 
moonlight. 

"  Oh  !"  she  exclaimed  in  a  low  voice;  "  oh  !"  She 
moved  forward,  materializing,  out  of  the  dark,  into 
a  figure  of  white  youth.  Her  face  was  pale;  there 
were  white  ruffles  on  her  neck,  on  her  arms ;  her  skirt 
clung  simply,  whitely,  about  her  knees  and  ankles. 

"  I  stopped  to  see  Sim,"  he  explained  further, 
"  and  took  you  for  Mrs.  Caley.  I  reckoned  I'd 
bring  them  some  trout:  I  didn't  know  your  father 
was  here." 

"  Won't  you  sit  down  ?  Mrs.  Caley  is  sick,  and 
Sim's  on  the  mountain  with  the  cattle.  Father  isn't 
here." 

He  mounted  to  the  portico,  mentally  formulating 
a  way  of  speedy  escape ;  he  thought,  everywhere  he 
turned,  Lettice  Hollidew  stood  with  her  tiresome 
smile.  "  I  come  out  here  every  summer,"  she 
volunteered,  sinking  upon  a  step,  "  and  spend  two 

101 


102  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

weeks.  I  was  born  here,  you  see,  and,"  she  added 
in  a  stiller  voice,  "  my  mother  died  here.  Father 
Merlier  calls  it  my  yearly  retreat." 

;<  I'd  be  pleased  if  you'd  take  the  ~fish,"  he  re- 
marked; "  I  guess  I'd  better  be  moving — I've  got  to 
see  the  priest." 

'  Why,  you  haven't  stopped  a  minute,*'  she  pro- 
tested; "  not  long  enough  to  smoke  one  of  your  little 
cigarettes.  Visitors  are  too  scarce  here  to  let  them 
go  off  like  that." 

At  the  implied  suggestion  he  half-mechanically 
rolled  a  cigarette.  The  chair  he  found  was  com- 
fortable; he  was  very  weary.  He  sat  smoking  and 
indifferently  studying  Lettice  Hollidew.  She  was, 
to-night,  prettier  than  he  had  remembered  her.  She 
was  telling  him,  in  a  voice  that  rippled  cool  and  low 
like  the  stream,  of  Mrs.  Caley's  indisposition.  Her 
face,  now  turned  toward  the  fields,  was  dipped  in  the 
dreaming  radiance;  now  it  was  blurred,  vaguely 
appealing,  disturbing.  Her  soft  youth  was  creamy, 
distilling  an  essence,  a  fragrance,  like  a  flower ;  it  was 
one  with  the  immaculate  flood  of  light  bathing  the 
world  in  virginal  beauty. 

A  new  interest  stirred  within  him,  a  satisfaction 
grew  from  her  palpable  liking  for  him,  and  was  re- 
flected in  the  warmer  tones  of  his  replies;  a  new 
pain  ordered  his  comments.  The  situation,  too, 
appealed  to  him;  his  instinct  responded  to  the 
obvious  implications  of  the  position  in  the  exact 
degree  of  his  habit  of  mind.  The  familiar  pro- 
fessional gallantry  took  possession  of  him,  directing 
the  sensuality  to  which  he  abandoned  himself. 

He  moved  from  the  chair  to  the  step  by  her  side. 
Nearer,  she  was  more  appealing  still;  a  lovely 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  103 

shadow  dwelt  at  the  base  of  her  throat;  the  simple 
dress  took  the  soft  curves  of  her  girlish  body,  stirred 
with  her  breathing.  Her  hands  lay  loosely  in  her 
lap,  and  the  impulse  seized  him  to  take  them  up,  but 
he  repressed  it  ...  for  the  moment. 

"  I  saw  Buckley  Simmons,  yesterday,"  she  in- 
formed him;  "  his  face  is  nearly  well.  He  wanted 
to  come  out  here,  but  I  wouldn't  let  him.  He  wants 
to  marry  me,"  she  continued  serenely;  "  I  told  him 
I  didn't  think  I'd  ever  marry." 

"  But  you  will — some  lucky  young  man." 
"  I  don't  think  I  like  young  men — that  is,"  she 
qualified  carefully,  "  not  very  young.  I  like  men 
who  are  able  to  act  ever  so  quickly,  no  matter  what 
occurs,  and  they  must  be  terribly  brave.  I  like 
them  best  if  they  have  been  unfortunate ;  something 
in  me  wants  to  make  up  to  them  for — for  any  loss." 
She  paused,  gazing  at  him  with  an  elevated  chin, 
serious  lips,  intent  eyes. 

This,  he  told  himself  complacently,  was  but  a 
description  of  himself,  as  pointed  as  she  dared  to 
make  it.  "A  man  who  had  had  trouble  couldn't 
do  better  than  tell  you  about  it,"  he  assured  her; 
"  I  have  had  a  good  lot  of  trouble." 

'  Well,  tell  me."     She  moved  toward  him. 
"  Oh!  you  wouldn't  care  to  hear  about  mine.     I'm 
a  sort  of  nobody  at  present.     I  haven't  anything  in 
the  world — no  home,  nothing  in  the  whole  world. 
Even  the  little  saving  I  had  after  the  house  was  sold 
was — was  taken  from  me  by  sharpers." 
'  Tell  me,"  she  repeated,  "  more." 
"  When  Valentine  Simmons  had  sold  my  place, 
the  place  my  grandfather  built,   I  had  about  a 
thousand  dollars  left,  and  I  thought  I  would  start  a 


104  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

little  business  with  it,  a  ...  a  gun  store — I  like 
guns — here  in  Greenstream.  And  I'd  sharpen 
scythes,  put  sickles  into  condition,  you  know — 
things  like  that.  I  went  to  Stenton  with  my  capital 
in  my  pocket,  looking  for  some  stock  to  open  with, 
and  met  a  man  in  a  hotel  who  said  he  was  the  re- 
presentative of  the  Standard  Hardware  Company. 
He  could  let  me  have  everything  necessary,  he  said, 
at  a  half  of  what  others  would  charge.  We  had 
dinner  together,  and  he  made  a  list  of  what  I  would 
need — files  and  vises  and  parts  of  guns.  If  I  mailed 
my  cheque  immediately  I  could  get  the  half  off. 
He  had  cards,  catalogues,  references,  from  Rich- 
mond. I  might  write  there,  but  I'd  lose  time  and 
money. 

"  None  of  the  Makimmons  have  been  good 
business  men;  we  are  not  distrustful.  I  sent  the 
cheque  to  the  address  he  said,  made  out  to  him  for 
the  Standard  Hardware  Company,  so  that  he  would 
get  the  commission,  the  credit  of  the  sale."  He 
drew  a  deep  breath,  gazing  across  the  moonlit  fields. 
'  The  Makimmons  are  not  distrustful,"  he  reiterated ; 
"  he  robbed  me  of  all  my  savings." 

His  lie  would  have  fared  badly  with  Pompey 
Hollidew,  he  thought  grimly;  it  was  unconvincing, 
wordy ;  he  was  conscious  that  his  assumed  emotion 
rang  thinly.  But  its  calculated  effect  was  instan- 
taneous, beyond  all  his  hopes,  his  plan. 

Lettice  leaned  close  to  him  with  a  sobbing  inspira- 
tion of  sympathy  and  pity.  "  How  terrible  !"  she 

cried  in  low  tones;  "  you  were  so  noble He 

breathed  heavily  once  more.  "  What  a  wicked, 
wicked  man  !  Couldn't  you  get  anything  back  ? 
did  it  all  go?" 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  105 

"  All."  His  hand  fell  upon  hers,  and  neither  of 
them  appeared  to  notice  its  pressure.  Her  face  was 
close  to  his,  a  tear  gleamed  on  her  young  moon- 
blanched  cheek.  A  sudden  impatience  seized  him 
at  her  credulity,  a  contempt  at  the  ease  with  which 
she  was  victimized;  the  effort  was  almost  without 
spice.  Still  his  grasp  tightened  upon  her  hand,  drew 
it  toward  him.  "  In  Greenstream,"  he  continued, 
"  men  don't  like  me,  they  are  afraid  of  me;  but  the 
women  make  me  unhappy — they  tell  me  their 
troubles;  I  don't  want  them  to,  I  keep  away  from 
them." 

"  I  understand  that,"  she  declared  eagerly;  "  I 
would  tell  you  anything." 

'  You  are  different ;  I  want  you  to  tell  me  .  .  . 
things.  But  the  things  I  want  to  hear  may  not 
come  to  you.  I  would  never  be  satisfied  with  a 
little.  The  Makimmons  are  all  that  way — every- 
thing or  nothing." 

She  gently  loosened  her  hand,  and  stood  up, 
facing  him.  Her  countenance,  turned  to  the  light, 
shone  like  a  white  flame ;  it  was  tensely  a  quiver  with 
passionate  earnestness,  lambent  with  the  flowering 
of  her  body,  of  dim  desire,  the  heritage  of  flesh.  She 
spoke  in  a  voice  that  startled  Gordon  by  its  new 
depth,  the  brave  thrill  of  its  undertone. 

"  I  could  only  give  all,"  she  said.  "  I  am  like  that 
too.  What  do  you  wish  me  to  tell  you  ?  What  can 
I  say  that  will  help  you  ?" 

"  Ever  since  I  first  saw  you  going  to  the  Stenton 
school,"  he  hurried  on,  "  I  have  thought  about  you. 
I  could  hardly  wait  for  the  Christmas  holidays,  to 
have  you  in  the  stage,  or  for  the  summer  when  you 
came  home.  Nobody  knows;  it  has  been  a  secret 


106  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

...  it  seemed  so  useless.     You  were  like  a  ...  a 
star,"  lie  told  her. 

"  How  could  I  know  ?"  she  asked;  "  I  was  only  a 
girl  until — until  Buckley  .  .  .  until  to-night,  now. 
But  I  can  never  be  that  again:  something  has 
happened  ...  in  my  heart;  something  has  gone, 
and  come."  Her  voice  grew  shadowed,  wistful.  It 
carried  to  him,  in  an  intangible  manner,  a  fleet 
warning,  as  though  something  immense,  unguessed, 
august,  uttered  through  Lettice  Hollidew  the 
whisper  of  a  magnificent  and  terrible  menace.  He 
felt  again  as  he  had  felt  as  a  child  before  the  vast 
mystery  of  night.  An  impulse  seized  him  to  hurry 
away  from  the  portico,  from  the  youthful  figure  at 
his  side ;  a  sudden  illogical  fear  chilled  him.  But  he 
summoned  the  hardihood,  the  scepticism,  of  his 
heart;  he  defied — while  the  sinking  within  him 
persisted — not  the  girl,  but  the  nameless  force 
beyond,  above,  about  them.  "  You  are  like  a 
star,"  he  repeated,  in  forced  tones. 

He  rose  and  stood  before  her.  She  swayed  to- 
ward him  like  a  flower  bowed  by  the  wind.  He  put 
his  arms  around  her;  her  head  lay  back,  and  he 
kissed  the  smooth  fullness  of  her  throat.  He  kissed 
her  lips. 

The  eternal,  hapless  cry  of  the  whippoorwills 
throbbed  on  his  hearing.  The  moon  slipped  be- 
hind a  corner  of  the  house,  and  a  wave  of  darkness 
swept  over  them .  Lettice  began  to  tremble  violently, 
and  he  led  her  back  to  their  place  on  the  veranda's 
edge.  She  was  silent,  and  clung  to  him  with  a 
reluctant  eagerness.  He  kissed  her  again  and  again, 
on  a  still  mouth,  but  soon  her  lips  answered  his 
desire.  It  grew  constantly  darker,  the  silvery 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  107 

vistas  shortened,  grew  blurred,  trees  merged  into 
indistinguishable  gloom. 

Lettice  murmured  a  shy,  unaccustomed  endear- 
ment. Gordon  was  stereotyped,  commonplace;  he 
was  certain  that  even  she  must  recognize  the  hollow- 
ness  of  his  protestations.  But  she  never  doubted  him ; 
she  accepted  the  dull,  leaden  note  of  his  spurious 
passion  for  the  clear  ring  of  unalloyed  and  fine  gold. 
Suddenly  and  unexpectedly  she  released  herself 
from  his  arms.  "  Oh ! "  she  exclaimed,  in  conscience- 
stricken  tones,  "  Mrs.  Caley's  medicine  !  I — for- 
got; she  should  have  had  some  long  ago."  He 
tried  to  catch  her  once  more  in  his  embrace,  restrain 
her.  "  It  would  be  better  not  to  wake  her  up,"  he 
protested;  "  sleep's  what  sick  folks  need."  But  she 
continued  to  evade  him.  Mrs.  Caley  must  have  her 
medicine.  The  doctor  had  said  that  it  was  im- 
portant. "  It's  my  duty,  Gordon,"  she  told  him, 
"  and  you  would  want  me  to  do  that." 

He  stifled  with  difficulty  an  impatient  exclama- 
tion. '  Then  will  you  come  back  ?"  he  queried. 
He  took  her  once  more  close  in  his  arms.  "  Come 
back,"  he  whispered  hotly  in  her  ear. 
'  But,  dear  Gordon,  it  is  so  late." 
'  What  does  that  matter  ?  don't  you  love  me  ? 
You  said  you  were  the  sort  of  a  girl  to  give  all ;  and 
now,  because  it  is  a  little  late,  you  are  afraid.  What 
are  you  afraid  of  ?  Tell  me  that !  You  know  I 
love  you;  we  belong  to  each  other;  what  does  it 
matter  how  late  it  is  ?  Beside,  no  one  will  know, 
no  one  is  here  to  spy  on  us.  Come  back,  my  little 
girl  .  .  .  my  little  Lettice;  come  back  to  a  lonely 
man  with  nothing  else  in  the  world  but  you.  I'll 
come  in  with  you,  wait  inside." 


108  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

"  No,"  she  sobbed,  "  wait  .  .  .  here.  I  will  see 
.  .  .  the  medicine.  Wait  here  for  me — I  will  come 
back.  It  doesn't  matter  how  late  it  is;  nothing 
matters  .  .  .  trust  in  you.  Love  makes  every- 
thing good.  Only  you  love  me,  oh,  truly  ?" 

"Truly,"  he  reassured  her.  "Don't  be  long; 
and,  remember,  shut  Mrs.  Caley's  door." 

She  left  him  abruptly,  and,  standing  alone  in  the 
dark,  he  cursed  himself  for  a  fool  for  letting  her 
go — a  boy's  trick.  But  then,  the  whole  affair  did 
not  desperately  engage  him.  He  sat  in  the  com- 
fortable chair  and  lit  a  cigarette,  shielding  it  with 
his  hand  so  that  she  would  not  see  it,  recognize  in 
its  triviality  his  detachment.  A  wave  of  weariness 
swept  over  him;  the  night  was  like  a  blanket  on 
the  land.  Minutes  passed  without  her  return ;  soon 
he  would  go  in  search  of  her ;  he  wrould  find  her  .  .  . 
in  the  dark  house.  .  .  .  He  shut  his  eyes  for  a 
moment,  and  opened  them  with  an  effort.  The 
whippoorwills  never  for  a  moment  ceased  their 
melancholy  calling;  they  seemed  to  draw  nearer  to 
him ;  then  retreat,  far  away.  His  head  fell  forward 
upon  his  breast. 

Lettice  Hollidew  !  little  fool ;  but  what  was  that 
beyond  her,  blacker  than  night  ? 

He  stirred,  sat  up  sharply,  his  eyes  dazzled  by  a 
blaze  of  intolerable  brilliancy.  It  was  the  sun,  a 
full  twTo  hours  above  the  horizon.  He  had  slept 
through  the  night.  His  muscles  were  cramped,  his 
neck  ached  intolerably.  He  rose  with  a  painful 
effort,  and  something  fell  to  the  floor.  It  was  a 
rose,  wilted,  its  fragrance  fled.  He  realized  that 
Lettice  had  laid  it  on  his  knee,  last  night,  when  the 
bud  had  been  fresh.  He  had  slept  while  she  stood 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  109 

above  him,  while  the  rose  had  faded.  On  the  step 
the  fish  lay,  no  longer  brightly  coloured,  in  a  dull, 
stiff  heap.  The  house  was  still;  through  the  open 
door  the  sun  fell  on  a  strip  of  rag  rug.  He  turned 
and  hurried  down  the  steps,  unlatched  the  gate,  and 
almost  ran  across  the  fields  to  the  cover  of  a  wood, 
fleeing  from  an  unsupportably  humiliating  vision. 


XXV 

HE  made  his  way  to  where  Greensteam  village 
lay  somnolent  beneath  the  refulgent  day.  The 
chairs  before  the  office  of  the  Bugle  were  unoccupied ; 
from  within  came  the  monotonous,  sliding  rattle  of 
the  small  footpress.  Gordon  sat  absently  revolving 
the  possibilities  held  out  by  the  near  future.  Hay, 
he  knew,  was  still  being  made  in  the  valley,  but  the 
prospect  of  long,  arduous  days  in  the  open  fields,  in 
the  hot  dry  chaff  of  the  sere  grass,  was  forbidding. 
He  might  take  his  gun  and  a  few  personal  necessities 
and  disappear  into  such  wild  as  yet  remained, 
contracting  steadily  before  the  inexorable  smooth 
advance  of  civilization.  He  was  aware  that  he 
could  manage  a  degree  of  comfort,  adequate  food. 
But  the  thoughtless  resiliency  of  sheer  youth  had 
deserted  him,  the  desire  for  mere  picturesque 
adventure  had  fled  during  the  past  comfortable 
years.  He  dismissed  contemptuously  the  possi- 
bility of  clerking  in  a  local  store.  There  was  that 
still  in  the  Makimmon  blood  which  balked  at 
measuring  ribbands,  selling  calico  to  captious 
women. 

The  large,  suave  figure  of  the  Baptist  minister, 
in  grey  alpaca  coat  and  black  trousers,  approached 
leisurely  over  the  street  and  stopped  before  Gordon. 
The  minister  had  a  conspicuously  well-fed  paunch, 

110 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  111 

his  smooth  face  expressed  placid  self-approval,  his 
tones  never  for  a  moment  lost  the  unctuous  echo  of 
the  pulpiteer. 

'  You  have  not  worshipped  with  us  lately,"  he 
observed.  "  Remiss,  remiss.  Our  services  have 
been  stirring — three  souls  redeemed  from  everlasting 
torment  at  the  Wednesday  meeting,  two  adults  and 
a  child  sealed  to  Christ  on  Sunday." 

"  I'll  drop  in,"  Gordon  told  him  pacifically. 

"  A  casual  phrase  to  apply  to  the  Mansion  of  the 
Son,"  the  minister  observed;  "  more  humility  would 
become  you.  .  .  .  God,  I  pray  Thee  that  Thy  fire 
descend  upon  this  unhappy  man  and  consume 
utterly  away  his  carnal  envelope.  What  are  you 
doing  ?"  he  demanded  abruptly  of  Gordon. 

"  Nothing  particular  just  now." 

'  There  are  some  small  occupations  about  the 
parsonage — a  board  or  so  loose  on  the  ice  house, 
a  small  field  of  provender  for  the  animal.  Let  us 
say  a  week's  employment  for  a  ready  man.  I  could 
pay  but  a  modest  stipend  .  .  .  but  the  privilege  of 
my  home,  the  close  communion  with  our  Maker. 
You  would  be  as  my  brother:  what  do  you  say  ?" 

Gordon  was  well  aware  of  the  probable  extent 
of  the  "  small  occupations,"  the  minister's  reputa- 
tion for  exacting  monumental  labours  in  return  for 
the  "  modest  stipend  "  mentioned.  However,  the 
proposal  furnished  Gordon  with  a  solution  for  im- 
mediate difficulties;  it  secured  him  a  bed  and  food, 
an  opportunity  for  the  maturing  of  further  plans. 

He  rose,  queried,  "  Shall  I  go  right  along  ?" 

"  Admirable,"  the  other  approved.  "  My  be- 
loved helpmate  will  show  you  where  the  tools  are 
kept,  when  you  can  begin  immediately." 


112  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

Gordon  made  his  way  past  Simmons's  store  to  the 
plaster  bulk  of  the  Baptist  Church,  its  lawn  shared 
by  the  four-square  shingled  roof  of  the  parsonage. 
Behind  both  structures  reached  a  small  field  of 
heavy  grass,  where  Gordon  laboured  for  the 
remainder  of  the  day. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  an  aged,  gaunt  man  drove 
an  incongruous  two- wheeled,  breaking  cart  into  the 
stable  yard  behind  the  parsonage.  After  hitching 
an  aged,  gaunt  white  horse,  he  approached  the  field's 
edge,  where  Gordon  was  harvesting.  It  was  the 
minister's  father-in-law,  himself  a  clergyman  for 
the  half  century  past,  a  half  century  that  stretched 
back  into  strenuous  bygone  days  of  circuit  riding. 
His  flowing  hair  and  a  ragged  goatee  were  white, 
oddly  stained  and  dappled  with  lemon  yellow;  his 
skin  was  leather-like  from  years  of  exposure  to  the 
elements,  to  the  bitter  mountain  winters,  the  ruth- 
less suns  of  the  August  valleys.  He  was  as  seasoned, 
as  tough,  as  choice  old  hickory,  and  he  had  pale  blue 
eyes  in  which  the  flame  of  religious  fervour,  of  in- 
candescent zeal,  was  scarcely  dimmed. 

A  long  supper  table  was  spread  in  a  room  where  a 
sideboard  supported  a  huge  silver-plated  pitcher 
swung  on  elaborately  engraved  supports,  a  dozen 
blue  glasses  traced  with  gold,  and  a  plate  that 
pictured  in  a  grey,  blurred  fashion  the  Last  Supper. 
The  gathering  ranged  variously  from  the  aged 
circuit  rider  to  the  minister's  next  but  one  to  the 
youngest:  he  had  fourteen  children,  of  whom  nine 
were  ravenously  present.  The  oldest  girl  at  the 
table,  a  possible  sixteen  years,  had  this  defiant 
detachment  under  her  immediate  charge,  acquitting 
herself  notably  by  a  constant  stream  of  sharp 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  113 

negations  opposed  to  a  varied  clamour  of  proposals, 
attempted  forages  upon  the  heaped  plates,  sly 
reprisals  and  a  sustained,  hysterical  note  which 
threatened  at  any  time,  and  in  any  youthful  indi- 
vidual, to  burst  into  angry  wails. 

Opposite  Gordon  Makimmon  sat  a  slight  femi- 
nine figure  whom  he  recognized  as  the  teacher  of  the 
past  season's  local  school.  She  had  a  pallid  face, 
which  she  rarely  raised,  compressed  lips,  and  hands 
which  attracted  Gordon  by  reason  of  their  white 
deftness,  the  precise  charm  of  their  pointed  fingers. 
During  a  seemingly  interminable  grace,  pronounced 
in  a  rapid  sing-song  by  the  circuit  rider,  Gordon 
saw  her  flash  her  gaze  about  the  table,  the  room; 
and  its  sombre,  resentful  fire,  its  restrained  fury  of 
impatience,  of  disdain,  of  hatred,  coming  from  that 
fragile,  silent  shape,  startled  him. 

The  Baptist  minister  addressed  the  company 
in  sonorous  periods,  which,  however,  did  not 
prevent  him  from  assimilating  a  prodigious  amount 
of  food.  Between  forkfuls  of  chicken  baked  in  mac- 
aroni, "  I  rejoice  that  my  ministrations  are  accept- 
able to  Him,"  he  pronounced;  "  three  souls  Wed- 
nesday last,  two  adults  and  a  child  on  Sunday." 

The  aged  evangelist  could  scarcely  contain  his 
contempt  at  this  meagre  tally.  "  What  would  you 
say,  Augustus,"  he  demanded  in  eager,  tremulous 
triumph,  "  to  two  hundred  lost  souls  roaring  up  to 
the  altar,  casting  off  their  wickedness  like  snakes 
shed  their  skins  ?  Hey  ?  Hey  ?  What  would  you 
say  to  two  hundred  dipped  in  the  blood  of  the  lamb 
and  emerging  white  as  the  Dove  ?  Souls  ain't  what 
they  were,"  he  muttered  pessimistically;  "  it  used  to 
be  you  could  hear  the  Redeemed  a  spell  of  miles 

8 


114  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

from  the  church;  now  they're  as  confidential  as  a 
man  borrowing  money.  The  Lord  will  in  no  wise 
acknowledge  the  faint  in  spirit."  Suddenly, 
"  Glory  !  Glory  !"  he  shouted,  and  his  old  eyes 
flamed  with  the  inextinguishable  blaze  of  his 
enthusiasm. 

The  minister's  wife  inserted  in  the  door  from  the 
kitchen  a  face  bright  red  from  bending  over  the 
stove.  "  Now,  pa,"  she  admonished,  "  you'll  scare 
them  children  again." 


XXVI 

THE  "  board  or  so  "  to  be  replaced  on  the  ice  house 
proved,  as  Gordon  had  surmised,  to  be  extensive — 
a  large  section  of  the  inner  wall  had  rotted  from  the 
constant  dampness,  the  slowly  seeping  water.  The 
ice  house  stood  behind  the  dwelling,  by  the  side  of 
the  small  barn  and  beyond  a  number  of  apple  trees ; 
it  was  a  square  structure  of  boards,  with  no  opening 
save  a  low  door  under  the  peak  of  the  roof,  with  a 
small  platform  and  exterior  flight  of  steps. 

In  the  gloomy,  dank  interior  a  rough  ladder, 
fastened  to  the  wall,  led  down  to  the  falling  level  of 
soggy  sawdust,  embedded  in  which  the  irregular 
pieces  of  ice  were  preserved  against  the  summer. 
From  the  interior  the  opening  made  a  vivid  square 
of  blue  sky;  for  long  hours  the  blue  increased  in 
brilliancy,  after  which,  veiled  in  a  greyer  haze  of 
heat,  the  patch  of  sky  grew  gradually  paler,  and 
then  clear;  the  suggestion  of  immeasurable  space 
deepened;  above  the  dark  hole  of  the  ice  house  the 
illimitable  distance  was  appalling.  Gordon  was 
resting  from  the  sullen,  muffled  knocking  of  his 
hammer,  when  a  figure  suddenly  blotted  out  the 
light,  hid  the  sky.  He  recognized  the  sharply-cut 
silhouette  of  the  school-teacher. 

'  What  a  horrid,  spooky  place  !"  She  spoke  with 
a  shiver,  peering  within. 

115 


116  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

"  It's  cool,"  Gordon  told  her,  indifferently. 

"  And  quiet,"  she  added,  seating  herself  upon  the 
platform  with  an  elbow  in  the  opening;  "  there's 
none  of  the  bothersome  clatter  of  a  lot  of  detestable 
children."  She  raised  her  voice  in  shrill  mimicry, 
" '  Teacher,  kin  I  be  excused  ?  Teacher !  .  .  . 
Teacher !" 

"  Don't  you  like  children  ?" 

"  I  loathe  them,"  she  shot  at  him,  out  of  the 
depths  of  a  profound,  long-accumulated  exaspera- 
tion; "  the  muddy  little  beasts." 

'  Then  I  wouldn't  be  vexed  with  them." 

"  Do  you  like  nailing  boards  in  a  rotten  ice 
house  r 

11  Oh,  I'm  dog  poor;  I've  got  to  take  anything 
that  comes  along." 

"  And,  you  fool,  do  you  suppose  I'd  be  here  if  I 
had  anything  at  all  ?  Do  you  suppose  I'd  stay  in 
this  damn  lost  hole  if  I  could  get  anywhere  else  ? 
Do  you  think  I  have  no  more  possibilities  than 
this  ?" 

He  mounted  the  ladder,  and  emerged  upon  the 
platform  by  her  side,  where  he  found  a  place,  a 
minute,  for  a  cigarette. 

The  woman's  face  was  bitter,  her  body  tense. 

"I'll  grow  old  and  die  in  places  like  this,"  she 
continued  passionately;  "  I'll  grow  old  and  die  in 
poky  little  schools,  and  wear  prim  calico  dresses, 
with  a  remade  old  white  mull  for  commencements. 
I'll  never  hear  anything  but  twice  two,  and  Persia 
is  bounded  on  the  north  by — with  all  the  world 
beyond,  Paris  and  London  and  Egypt,  for  the  lucky. 
I  want  to  live,"  she  cried  to  Gordon  Makimmon, 
idly  curious,  to  the  still  branches  of  the  apple  trees, 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  117 

the  vista  of  village  half -hid  in  dusty  foliage.  "  I 
want  to  see  things,  things  different,  not  these  dumb, 
depressing  mountains.  I  want  to  see  life  !" 

Gordon  had  a  swift  memory  of  a  city  street  grey 
in  a  reddening  flood  of  dawn,  of  his  own  voice 
mumbling  out  of  an  overwhelming,  nauseous  des- 
peration that  same  insistent  desire.  "  Perhaps," 
he  ventured,  "  you  wouldn't  think  so  much  of  it 
when  you'd  seen  it." 

"  Wouldn't  I  ?"  she  exclaimed;  "  oh,  wouldn't  I  ? 
— smart  crowds  and  gay  streets  and  shops  on  fire 
with  j ewels.  That's  where  I  belong ;  I'd  show  them ; 
I've  got  a  style,  if  I  only  had  a  chance  !  I've  got 
a  figure  .  .  .  shoulders." 

He  appraised  in  a  veiled  glance  her  physical  pre- 
tensions. He  discovered,  to  his  surprise,  that  she 
had  "  shoulders  " ;  her  body  resembled  her  hands,  it 
was  smoothly  rounded,  provocative;  its  graceful 
proportion  deceived  the  casual  eye. 

With  a  disdainful  motion  she  kicked  off  a  heavily 
clumsy  slipper — her  instep  arched  narrowly  to  a 
delicate  ankle,  the  small  heel  was  sharply  cut.  "  In 
silk,"  she  said,  "  and  a  little  brocaded  slipper,  you 
would  see."  She  replaced  the  inadequate  thing  of 
leather.  The  animation  died  from  her  counte- 
nance, she  surveyed  him  with  cold  eyes,  narrowed 
lips.  Her  gaze,  he  felt,  included  him  in  the  imme- 
diate, hateful  scene;  she  gained  fresh  repugnance 
from  his  stained  collarless  shirt,  his  bagging  knees 
coated  with  sawdust. 

She  rose  and,  her  skirt  gathered  in  one  hand,  de- 
scended the  precarious  flight  of  steps.  She  crossed 
the  grass  slowly,  her  head  bent,  her  hands  tightly 
clenched. 


118  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

Later,  in  the  yard,  Gordon  saw,  at  a  lighted 
upper  window,  the  silhouette  of  her  back,  a  gleam 
of  white  arm.  The  window  cast  an  elongated  rect- 
angle of  warm  light  on  the  blue  gloom  of  the  grass. 
It  illuminated  him,  with  his  gaze  lifted ;  and,  while, 
standing  in  the  open  window,  she  saw  him  clearly, 
she  was  as  indifferent,  as  contemptuous  of  his  pres- 
ence, as  though  he  had  been  an  animal.  A  film 
of  cambric,  golden  in  the  lamplight,  settled  about 
her  smooth  shoulders,  fell  in  long  diaphanous  lines. 
She  raised  her  arms  to  her  head,  her  hair  slid  darkly 
across  her  face,  and  she  turned  and  disappeared. 
He  moved  away,  but  the  memory  rankled  delicately 
in  his  imagination,  returned  the  following  morn- 
ing. The  thought  lingered  of  that  body,  as  fine  as 
ivory,  unguessed,  hidden,  in  a  coarse  sheath. 


XXVII 

His  miscellaneous  labours  at  the  minister's  filled 
nearly  a  week  of  unremitting  labour.  But,  upon 
the  advent  of  Sunday,  mundane  affairs  were  sus- 
pended in  the  general  confusion  of  preparation  for 
church.  It  had  rained  during  the  night,  the  day 
was  cool  and  fragrant  and  clear,  and  Gordon  deter- 
mined to  evade  the  morning's  services  and  plunge 
aimlessly  into  the  pleasant  fields.  He  kept  in  the 
background  until  the  cavalcade  had  started,  headed 
by  the  minister — the  circuit  rider  had  driven  off 
earlier  in  his  cart  to  an  outlying  chapel — and  his 
wife.  It  was  inviting  on  the  deserted  veranda,  and 
Gordon  lingered  while  the  village  emptied  into  the 
churches,  the  open. 

Finally  he  sauntered  over  the  street,  past  the 
Courthouse,  by  Pompey  Hollidew's  residence.  It 
was,  unlike  the  surrounding  dwellings,  built  of 
brick ;  there  was  no  porch,  only  three  stone  steps  de- 
scending from  the  main  entrance — and  no  flowers. 
The  path  was  overgrown  with  weeds,  the  front  shut- 
ters were  indifferently  flung  back,  half  opened, 
closed.  The  door  stood  wide  open,  and,  as  he 
passed,  Gordon  gathered  the  impression  of  a  dark 
heap  on  the  hall  floor.  He  dismissed  an  idle  curi- 
osity; and  then,  for  no  discoverable  reason,  halted, 
turned  back,  for  a  second  glance. 

119 


120  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

Even  from  the  path  he  saw  extending  from  the 
heap  an  arm,  a  gnarled  hand.  It  was  Pompey  Hol- 
lidew  himself,  cold,  still,  on  the  floor.  Gordon 
entered,  looking  outside  for  assistance:  no  one  was 
in  sight.  Pompey  Hollidew  wore  the  familiar 
greenish-black  coat,  the  thread-bare  trousers,  and 
the  faded  yellow  shirt.  The  battered  derby  had 
rolled  a  short  distance  across  the  floor.  The  dead 
man's  face  was  a  congested,  olive  shade,  with  purple 
smudges  beneath  the  up-rolled  eyes,  and  lips  like 
dried  leaves.  His  end,  it  was  apparent,  had  been 
as  sudden  as  it  was  natural. 

Old  Pompey  .  .  .  dead  !  Gordon  straightened 
up.  Simultaneously  two  ideas  flashed  into  his 
mind — Lettice  and  Hollidew's  gold.  Then  they 
grew  coherent,  explicable.  Lettice  and  the  gold 
were  one;  she  was  the  gold,  the  gold  was  Lettice. 
He  recalled  now,  appositely,  what  Bartamon  had 
told  him  but  a  few  days  before  .  .  .  Hollidew 
would  consent  to  make  no  will ;  there  were  no  other 
children.  The  money  would  automatically  go, 
principally,  to  Lettice,  without  question  or  contest. 
If  he  had  but  considered  before,  acted  with  ordi- 
nary sense  .  .  .  the  girl  had  been  in  love  with  him ; 
he  might  have  had  it  all.  He  gazed  cautiously,  but 
with  no  determined  plan  of  action,  out  over  the 
street — it  lay  deserted  in  the  ambient  sunlight. 

He  quickly  left  the  house,  the  old  man  sprawling 
grotesquely  across  the  bare  hall,  forcing  himself  to 
walk  with  an  assumed  deliberate  ease  over  the  plank 
walk,  past  Simmons 's  corner.  As  he  progressed, 
a  plan  formulated  in  his  mind,  a  plan  obvious, 
promising  immediate,  practical  results  .  .  .  Lettice 
had  told  him  that  she  would  remain  for  two  weeks 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  121 

at  the  farm.  It  was  evident  that  she  was  still  there. 
His  gait  quickened ;  if  he  could  reach  her  now,  be- 
fore any  one  else.  .  .  .  He  wished  that  he  had 
closed  the  door  upon  the  old  man's  body;  any  one 
passing  as  he  had  passed  could  see  the  corpse;  a 
wagon  would  be  sent  for  the  girl. 

He  commenced,  outside  the  village,  to  run,  pound- 
ing over  the  dusty  way  with  long-drawn,  painful 
gasps,  his  chest  oppressed  by  the  now  unaccustomed 
exercise,  the  rapid  motion.  When  he  came  in  sight 
of  the  farmhouse  that  was  his  objective,  he  stopped 
and  endeavoured  to  remove  all  traces  of  his  haste ; 
he  rubbed  off  his  shoes,  fingered  his  necktie,  mopped 
his  brow. 

There  was  a  woman  on  the  porch;  it  proved  to  be 
Mrs.  Caley,  folded  in  a  shawl,  pale  and  gaunt. 
Suddenly  the  possibility  occurred  to  him  that 
Lettice  had  driven  in  to  church.  But  she  was  in  the 
garden  patch  beyond,  Mrs.  Caley  said.  Gordon 
strolled  around  the  corner  of  the  house  as  hastily,  as 
slowly,  as  he  dared. 

He  saw  her  immediately.  She  wore  a  blue  linen 
skirt,  a  white  waist,  and  her  sleeves  were  rolled  up. 
The  sun  glinted  on  her  uncovered  hair,  blazed  in  the 
bright  tin  basin  into  which  she  was  dropping  scarlet 
peppers.  She  appeared  younger  than  he  had  re- 
membered her;  her  arms  were  youthful  and  softly 
dimpled;  her  brow  seemed  again  the  calm,  guileless 
brow  of  a  girl;  her  eyes,  as  she  raised  them  in 
greeting,  were  serene. 

"  I  wanted  to  explain  to  you,"  he  began  obliquely, 
"  about  that — that  falling  asleep.  It's  been  worry- 
ing me.  You  see,  I  hadn't  had  any  rest  for  three 
or  four  nights;  I  had  been  bothering  about  my 


122  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

affairs,  and  about  something  more  important 
still." 

Bean  poles,  covered  with  bright  green  verdure, 
made  a  background  of  young  summer  for  her  own 
promise  of  early  maturity.  She  placed  the  basin 
on  the  ground  and  stood  with  her  arms  hanging 
loosely,  gazing  at  him  expectantly,  frankly. 

"  The  most  important  thing  in  my  life,"  he  added ; 
then  paused.  "  I  thought  for  a  while  that  I  had 
better  go  away  without  saying  anything  to  you,  and 
more  particularly  since  I  have  lost  everything." 
He  could  hear,  coming  over  the  road,  the  regular 
hoof-beats  of  a  trotting  horse,  and  he  had  the  feel- 
ing that  it  must  be  a  messenger  from  the  village,  dis- 
patched in  search  of  Lettice  with  the  news  of  her 
father's  death.  For  a  moment  the  horse  seemed  to 
be  stopping;  he  was  afraid  that  his  opportunity  had 
been  lost;  but,  after  all,  the  hoof -beats  passed,  di- 
minished over  the  road.  Then,  "  Since  I  have  lost 
everything,"  he  repeated. 

'  Please  tell  me  more,"  she  demanded;  "  I  don't 
understand ' ' 

"  But,"  he  continued,  in  the  manner  he  had 
hastily  adopted,  "  when  the  time  came  I  couldn't; 
I  couldn't  go  away  and  leave  you.  I  thought,  per- 
haps, you  might  be  different  from  others;  I  thought, 
perhaps,  you  might  like  a  man  for  what  he  was, 
and  not  for  what  he  had.  I  would  come  to  you, 
I  decided,  and  tell  you  all  this,  tell  you  that  I  could 

work,  yes,  and  would,  and  make  enough "  He 

paused  in  order  to  observe  the  effect  of  his  speech 
upon  her.  She  was  gazing  clear-eyed  at  him,  in  a 
sort  of  shining  expectancy,  a  grave,  eager  compre- 
hension, appealing,  incongruous  to  her  girlhood. 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  123 

'  But  why  ?"  she  queried. 

"  Because  I'm  in  love  with  you:  I  want  to  marry 
you." 

Her  gaze  did  not  falter,  but  her  colour  changed 
swiftly,  a  rosy  tide  swept  over  her  cheeks  and  died 
away,  leaving  her  pale.  Her  lips  trembled.  A 
palpable,  radiant  content  settled  upon  her. 

'  Thank  you,"  she  told  him  seriously;  "  it  will 
make  me  very  happy  to  marry  you,  Gordon." 

With  a  fleeting,  backward  glance  he  moved  closer 
to  her,  his  arm  fell  about  her  waist,  he  pressed  a 
hasty,  ill-directed  kiss  upon  her  chin.  '  Will  you 
marry  me  now?"  he  asked  eagerly.  'You  see, 
others  wouldn't  understand:  you  remember  what 
your  father  said  about  the  Makimmon  breed  ? 
They  would  repeat  that  I  had  nothing,  or  even  that 
I  was  marrying  you  for  old  Pompey's  money.  You 
know  better  than  that :  you  know  he  wouldn't  give 
us  a  penny." 

"  It  wouldn't  matter  now  what  any  one  said," 
she  returned  serenely. 

"  But  it  would  be  so  much  easier — we  could  slip 
of!  quietly  somewhere  and  come  back  married — 
all  the  fuss  avoided,  all  the  say  so's  and  say  no's 
shut  up  right  at  the  beginning." 

'  When  do  you  want  to  be — be  married  ?" 

"  Right  away  !  now  !  to-day  !" 

"  Oh  .  .  .  oh,  Gordon,  but  we  couldn't !  I 
haven't  even  a  white  dress  here.  I  might  go  into 
Greenstream,  be  ready  to-morrow " 

"  No,  no,  no,  I'm  afraid  it  must  be  now  or  never; 
something  would  take  you  from  me.  I  knew  it,  I 
was  afraid  of  it,  from  the  first  ...  I'll  shoot  my- 
self." 


124  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

She  started  toward  him  in  an  excess  of  tender 
pity.  "  Do  you  care  as  much  as  that  V  She  laid 
her  palms  upon  his  shoulders,  lifting  her  face  to  his: 
'  Then  we  will  do  what  you  say,  we  will  go,  yes,  we 
will  go  immediately.  You  can  hitch  up  the  buggy, 
while  I  get  a  little  thing  or  two.  I  have  my  beads, 
and  the  bracelets  that  were  mother's  ...  I  wish 
my  white  organdie  was  here.  You  mustn't  think 
I'm  silly.  You  see — marriage,  for  a  girl  ...  I 
thought  it  would  all  be  so  different.  But,  Gordon 
dear,  we  won't  let  you  be  unhappy." 

He  wished  silently  to  God  that  she  would  get  the 
stuff  in  the  house,  that  they  would  get  started.  At 
any  minute  now  word  would  come  of  the  old  man's 
death,  there  would  be  delay,  Lettice  would  learn 
that  he  had  lied  again  and  again  to  her.  With  a 
gesture  of  impatience  he  dislodged  her  hands  from 
his  shoulders.  '  Where's  Sim  ?"  he  demanded. 

'  In  the  long  field.    I'll  show  you  the  stable;  it 
won't  take  me  a  minute  to  get  ready." 

He  hitched,  in  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time, 
a  tall,  ungainly  roan  horse  into  the  buggy;  his 
practised  hands  connected  the  straps,  settled  the 
headstall  and  collar.  He  stood  in  a  fever  of  un- 
easiness at  the  harnessed  head.  Lettice  was  longer 
than  she  had  indicated. 

When,  at  last,  she  appeared,  she  carried  a  neatly 
pinned  paper  bundle,  and  a  fragrant  mass  of  hastily 
pulled  roses.  Bright  blue  glass  beads  hung  over 
the  soft  contours  of  her  virginal  breasts;  the 
bracelets  that  had  been  her  mother's — enamelled 
in  black  on  old,  reddish  gold — encircled  her  smooth 
wrists. 

He  would  have  hurried  her  at  once  into  the  buggy, 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  125 

but  she  stopped  him,  and  stood  facing  him  with 
level,  solemn  eyes. 

"  I  give  myself  to  you,  Gordon/'  she  said,  "  gladly 
and  gladly,  and  I  will  go  wherever  you  go,  and 
try  all  my  life  to  be  what  you  would  like."  As  she 
repeated  her  simple  words,  erect  and  brave,  with  her 
arms  filled  with  roses,  for  a  fleeting  second  he  was 
again  conscious  of  the  vague  menace  that  had 
towered  darkly  at  her  back  on  the  night  when  she 
had  laid  in  his  grasp  that  other  rose  .  .  .  the  rose 
that  had  faded. 

"  Let's  get  along,"  he  urged.  The  whip  swung 
out  across  the  roan's  ears,  and  the  horse  started  for- 
ward with  a  vicious  rush.  The  dewy  fragrance  of 
the  flowers  trailed  out  behind  the  buggy,  mingling 
with  the  swirling  dust;  then  both  settled  into  the 
empty  road,  under  the  burning  brightness  of  the 
sun,  the  insensate  beauty  of  the  azure  sky. 


PART  II 


IN  the  clear  glow  of  a  lengthening  twilight  of  spring 
Gordon  Makimmon  sauntered  into  Simmons 's  store. 
The  high,  dusty  windows  facing  the  Courthouse 
were  raised,  and  a  warm  air  drifted  in,  faint  eddies 
of  the  fragrance  of  flowering  bushes,  languorous 
draughts  of  a  countryside  newly  green. 

A  number  of  men  idling  over  a  counter  greeted 
him  with  a  familiar  and  instantly  alert  curiosity. 
The  clerk  behind  the  counter  bent  forward  with 
the  brisk  assumption  of  a  business-like  air.  "  Cer- 
tainly/' Gordon  replied  to  his  query,  pausing  to 
allow  his  purpose  to  gain  its  full  effect;  "  I  want  to 
order  a  suit  of  clothes." 

'  Why,  damn  it  fell,  Gord  !"  exclaimed  an  in- 
dividual with  a  long,  drooping  nose,  a  jaw  which 
hung  loosely  on  a  corded,  bare  throat;  "  it  ain't 
three  weeks  ago  but  you  got  a  suit,  and  it  ain't  the 
one  you  have  on  now,  neither/' 

"  Shut  up,  ToFable,"  Buckley  Simmons  inter- 
posed, "  you'll  hurt  trade.  Gordon's  the  Dandy 
Dick  of  Greenstream." 

"  Haven't  I  a  right  to  as  many  suits  of  clothes 
as  I've  a  mind  to  ?"  Gordon  demanded  bel- 
ligerently. 

"  Sure  you  have,  Gord.  You  certainly  have,"  a 
pacific  chorus  replied. 

129  9 


130  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

"  I  want  one  like  the  last  drummer  wore  through 
here,"  he  continued;  "  a  check  suit  with  braid  on  all 
the  edges." 

The  clerk  dropped  a  bulky  volume  heavily  on  the 
counter.  '  The  Chicago  Sartorial  Company/'  he 
asserted,  "  have  got  some  swell  checks."  He  ran 
hastily  over  the  pages,  each  with  a  sample  rectangle 
of  cloth  pasted  within  a  printed  gold  border,  and  a 
cabalistic  sign  beneath.  Finally,  "  How's  that  ? "  he 
demanded,  indicating  a  bold  mathematical  design 
in  pale  orange,  blue,  and  grey. 

A  combined  whistle  rose  from  the  onlookers; 
comments  of  mock  amazement  crowded  one  upon 
another.  "  Jin  ...  go  !  He's  got  the  wrong 
book — that's  rag  carpet.  Don't  look  at  it  too  long, 
Gord,  it'll  cross  your  eyes.  That  ain't  a  suit,  it's 
a  game."  A  gaunt  hand  solemnly  shook  out 
imaginary  dice  upon  the  counter;  "  It's  my  move 
and  I  can  jump  you." 

"  Gentlemen  !  gentlemen  !"  the  clerk  protested; 
"  this  is  the  finest  article  woven,  the  very  toniest." 

Gordon  dismissed  the  sample  with  a  gesture. 
'  I'm  a  man,"  he  pronounced,  "  not  a  minstrel." 
His  attention  was  held  by  a  smaller  pattern,  in 
black  and  white,  with  an  occasional  red  thread 
drawn  through.  '  That's  it,"  he  decided;  "  that's 
it,  with  braid.  What  will  that  damage  me  ?" 

The  clerk  consulted  the  sign  appended  to  the 
sample,  then  raced  through  a  smaller  supplementary 
volume,  where  he  located  the  item  in  question. 
'  That  cloth  you  picked  out,"  he  announced  im- 
portantly, "  is  one  of  the  best  the  Chicago  Sartorial 
Company  put  out.  Cut  ample,  with  sleeves  lined 
in  silkaleen  and  back  in  Al  mohair,  it'll  stand  you 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  131 

thirty-eight  dollars.    Genuine  Eytalian  thread  silk 
lining  will  come  at  four  and  a  half  more." 

"  Shell  do,"  Gordon  told  him,  "  with  the  silk  and 
the  braid  edge." 

The  clerk  noted  the  order;  then  with  a  tape 
measure  affixed  to  a  slim  wooden  angle,  came  from 
behind  the  counter.  "  Remove  the  coat,  please." 

Gordon,  with  a  patent  self -consciousness,  took  off 
his  coat,  revealing  a  flimsy  white  silk  shirt  striped 
like  a  child's  stick  of  candy  in  vivid  green. 

The  whistle  arose  with  renewed  force;  gnarled 
and  blackened  fingers  gingerly  felt  the  shirt  'a 
texture.  "  Man  dear !  The  lily  of  Lebanon. 
Arrayed  like  a  regular  prostitute  .  .  .  silk  shirt 
tails." 

The  clerk  skilfully  conducted  a  series  of  measure- 
ments, noting  results  on  a  printed  form;  outer  and 
inner  seams  were  tallied,  chest  and  thigh  and  knee 
recorded,  the  elbow  crooked.  "  Don't  forget  his 
teeth,"  the  clerk  was  admonished;  "  remember  the 
braid  on  the  pants." 

Gordon  resumed  his  coat,  the  clerk  returned  the 
books  to  their  shelf,  and  the  factitious  excitement 
subsided.  The  light  faded,  the  depths  of  the  store 
swam  in  blue  obscurity,  but  the  fragrance  of  the 
spring  dusk  had  deepened. 

'  When  are  you  going  to  get  the  dog,  Gord  ?" 
Tollable  asked. 

'  What  dog  ?"  another  interposed  curiously. 

'  Why,  ain't  you  heard  about  Gord's  dog  ?"  the 
chorus  demanded.  '  Where  have  you  been — up 
with  the  Dutch  on  the  South  Fork  ?  Gord's  got  a 
dog  coming  he  give  two  hundred  dollars  for.  Yes, 
sir,  he  paid  for  a  dog,  he  give  real  money  for  a  four- 


132  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

legged,  yelping  wire-hound.  It  ain't  a  rabbit  dog, 
nor  a  sheep  dog,  nor  even  a  bull-dog;  but  just  plain, 
stinking  dog." 

"  Ah,  he  did  like  hell — give  two  hundred  for  a 
dog !" 

'  Yes,  he  did.  That's  right,  didn't  you,  Gord  ? 
Two  hundred  !  I  saw  the  cheque.  God  dam'  if  he 
didn't !" 

Gordon  admitted  the  facts  as  far  as  they  had  been 
stated.  "  But  this  dog,"  he  explained, "  is  different 
from  the  just-happen-so  hounds  around  here.  This 
dog  has  got  a  pedigree;  his  parents  were  united  by 
the  church  all  regular  and  highly  fashionable.  He 
ain't  expected  to  run  rabbits  nor  mangy  sheep;  he 
just  sits  on  the  stoop  eating  sausages  and  syrup,  and 
takes  a  leg  off  any  low-down  parties  that  visit  with 
him  without  a  collar  on.  He'll  be  on  the  Stenton 
stage  this  evening,"  he  added.  "  I  got  word  last 
night  he  was  coming." 

They  lounged  to  the  entrance  of  the  store,  gazing 
over  the  still  road,  in  the  direction  from  which  the 
stage  would  arrive.  Valentine  Simmons  was  in  his 
office;  and,  as  Gordon  passed,  he  knocked  on  the 
glass  of  the  enclosure  and  beckoned  the  other  to 
enter. 

He  greeted  Gordon  Makimmon  cordially,  waving 
him  to  a  seat.  Valentine  Simmons  never,  appar- 
ently, changed;  his  countenance  was  always  freshly 
pink,  the  tufts  of  hair  above  his  ears  like  combed 
lamb's  wool;  his  shirt  with  its  single,  visible  blue 
button  never  lacked  its  immaculate  gloss. 

'  You're  looking  as  jaunty  as  a  man  should  with 
the  choice  of  the  land  before  him.  Lucky  !  lucky  ! 
charming  little  wife,  large  fortune  at  your  disposal. 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  133 

.  .  .  Pompey  left  one  of  the  solidest  estates  in  this 
section.  Opportune  for  you,  very  .  .  .  miraculous, 
if  I  may  say  so.  But  there,  you  ornament  the 
money  as  well  as  any  other.  You  are  right  too — 
a  free  hand;  yours  is  the  time  for  liberality,  no 
cares — they  come  later.  Ah,  Gordon,  have  you 
examined  the  details  of  your  late  father-in-law's 
property  ?  Have  you  searched  through  all  the 
items,  made  yourself  familiar  with  all  the — er, 
petty  and  laborious  details  ?" 

"  No,  not  just  yet;  I  have  been  intending 

Simmons  stopped  him  with  an  upraised  palm. 
"  No  more.  I  understand  your  thought  exactly. 
It's  a  tiresome  business.  Yours  is  the  time  for 
liberality,  no  cares.  However,  I  had  a  slight  know- 
ledge of  Pompey  Hollidew's  arrangements .  He  was 
accustomed  to  discussing  them  with  me.  He  liked 
my  judgment  in  certain  little  matters;  and,  in  that 
way,  I  got  a  general  idea  of  his  enterprises.  He  was 
a  great  hand  for  timber,  your  father-in-law ;  against 
weighty  advice  at  the  time  of  his  death  he  was  buy- 
ing timber  options  here  and  there  in  the  valley. 
Though  what  he  wanted  with  them  .  .  .  beyond 
ordinary  foresight.  No  transportation,  you  see;  no 
railroad  nor  way  of  getting  lumber  out.  But  then, 
he  had  some  visionary  scheme  or  other.  He  held 
some  thousand  acres,  most  of  it  bought  at  a  nominal 
figure.  No  good  to  anybody  now;  but  I  have  got 
the  timber  fever  myself — something  may  turn  up 
in^the  far  future,  perhaps  in  another  generation. 
.  .  .  What  would  you  say  to  a  flat  eight  dollars  an 
acre  for  the  options,  the  money  banked  right  to  your 
credit  ?  A  neat  little  sum  for  current  pleasures. 
Ah "  In  spite  of  himself,  Valentine  Simmons 


134  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

became  grave  at  the  contemplation  of  the  amount 
involved.  '  I  don't  say  I  would  take  all,  but  the 
best,  certainly  the  greater  part." 

'  Why,  I  don't  know/'  Gordon  spoke  slowly 
from  an  old-time  suspicion  of  the  other.  "  It's  my 
wife's  property." 

"  But  such  a  dutiful  little  wife — the  husband's 
word.  Remember,  the  money  in  your  hand." 

"  It  certainly  sounds  all  right.  Lettice  would 
have  the  cash  to  show.  I'll  speak  to  her." 

"  Better  not  delay.  There  are  other  options; 
owners  are  glad  to  sell.  I  have  given  you  the 
privilege  first — old  friend,  old  Presbyterian  friend. 
The  time  is  necessarily  limited." 

As  he  mentally  revolved  the  proposal  Gordon 
could  find  no  palpable  objection:  the  timber  was 
obviously  standing  fallow,  with  no  means  of  trans- 
portation to  a  market,  in  exchange  for  ready 
money.  Lettice  would  easily  see  the  sense  in  the 
deal;  besides,  he  had  brought  in  her  name  only 
for  form's  sake — he,  Gordon  Makimmon,  held  the 
deciding  vote  in  the  affairs  of  his  home. 

"  I  don't  rightly  see  anything  against  it,"  he 
admitted  finally. 

"  Good  !"  Simmons  declared  with  satisfaction; 
"  an  able  man — you  can  see  as  far  as  the  next 
through  a  transaction.  I'll  have  the  county  clerk 
go  over  the  options,  bring  you  the  result  in  a  couple 
of  weeks.  Don't  disturb  yourself;  yours  is  the  time 
for  pleasures,  not  papers." 

"  Hey,  Gord  !"  a  voice  called  thinly  from  with- 
out; "  here's  your  dog." 

Gordon  rose  and  made  his  way  to  the  platform 
before  the  store,  where  the  Stenton  stage  had 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  135 

stopped .  A  seat  had  been  removed  from  the  surrey, 
its  place  taken  by  a  large  box  with  a  square  open- 
ing, covered  with  heavy  wire  net  at  one  end  and 
a  board  fitted  movably  in  grooves  at  the  other. 
There  were  mutters  incredulous,  ironic,  from  the 
awaiting  group  of  men ;  envy  was  perceptible,  bitter- 
ness. ;'  ...  for  a  dog.  Two  hundred !  Old 
Pompey  hollered  out  of  the  dirt/' 

'  There  he  is,  Gord,"  the  driver  proclaimed;  "  and 
fetching  that  dog  palace'll  cost  you  seventy-five 
cents/'  The  box  was  shifted  to  the  platform;  and, 
while  Gordon  unfastened  the  slide,  the  men  gathered 
in  a  curious,  mocking  circle. 

The  slide  was  raised,  the  box  sharply  tilted,  and 
a  grotesquely  clumsy  and  grave  young  dog  slid  out. 
There  was  a  hoarse  uproar  of  gibing  laughter,  backs 
and  knees  were  slapped,  heavy  feet  stamped.  The 
dog  stood  puzzled  by  the  tumult:  he  had  a  long, 
square,  shaggy  head,  the  colour  of  ripe  wheat,  clear 
dark  eyes,  and  powerful  jaw;  his  body  was  narrow, 
covered  with  straight,  wiry  black  hair;  a  short  tail 
was  half  raised,  tentative;  and  his  wheat-coloured 
legs  were  ludicrously,  inappropriately,  long  and 
heavy. 

He  stood  patiently  awaiting,  evidently,  some 
familiar  note,  some  reassuring  command,  in  that 
unintelligible  human  clamour.  Gordon  regarded 
him  through  half -closed,  indifferent  eyes.  "  Here, 
doggy,"  a  hoarse,  persuasive  voice  called;  a  hand 
was  stretched  out  to  him.  But,  as  he  reached  it, 
'  Two  hundred  dollars  !"  the  voice  exclaimed,  and 
the  hand  gave  the  animal  a  quick,  unexpected 
thrust.  The  dog  sprawled  back  and  fell  on  the 
point  of  his  shoulder.  He  rose  swiftly  to  his  feet 


136  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

without  a  whimper,  standing  once  more  at  a  loss  in 
the  midst  of  the  inexplicable  animosity.  He  watched 
them  all  intently,  with  wrinkles  in  his  serious  young 
brow.  When,  from  behind,  another  hand  thrust 
him  sharply  upon  his  jaw,  he  rose  as  quickly  as 
possible,  swaying  a  little  upon  the  inappropriate 
legs.  Another  suddenly  knocked  his  hind  legs  from 
under  him,  and  he  sat  heavily  upon  his  haunches. 
The  laughter  ran  renewed  about  the  circle. 

The  sum  of  money  that  had  been  expended  upon 
that  single  dog — a  dog,  actually,  that  could  neither 
hunt  rabbits  nor  herd  sheep — had,  it  appeared, 
engendered  a  bitter  animosity,  a  personal  spite,  in 
the  hearts  of  the  men  on  the  store  platform.  They 
were  men  to  whom  two  hundred  dollars  was  the 
symbol  of  arduous  months  of  toil,  endless  days  of 
precariously  rewarded  labour  with  the  stubborn, 
inimical  forces  of  nature,  with  swamp  and  rock  and 
thicket.  Two  hundred  dollars  !  It  was  the  price 
of  a  roof,  of  health,  of  life  itself. 

A  hard  palm  swung  upon  the  dog's  ribs,  and,  in 
instant  response,  he  fell  upon  his  side.  He  rose 
more  slowly;  stood  isolated,  obviously  troubled. 
He  drew  back,  stumbling,  from  a  menacing  gesture ; 
but  there  was  no  cringing  visible  in  his  immature, 
ill-proportioned  body;  his  tail  drooped,  but  from 
weariness,  discouragement;  his  head  was  level;  his 
eyes  met  the  circle  of  eyes  about  him. 

Gordon  took  no  part  in  the  baiting;  he  lit  a  cigar, 
snapped  the  match  over  his  shoulder,  carelessly 
watched  his  newest  acquisition.  A  heavy,  wooden- 
soled  shoe  shoved  the  dog  forward.  And  Buckley 
Simmons,  in  an  obvious  improvement  upon  that 
manoeuvre,  kicked  the  animal  behind  the  ear.  The 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  137 

forelegs  rose  with  the  impact  of  the  blow,  and  the 
body  struck  full  length  upon  the  platform,  where  it 
lay  dazed.  But,  finally,  the  dog  got  up  insecurely, 
wabbling;  a  dark  blot  spread  slowly  across  the 
straw-coloured  head. 

No  one,  it  was  evident,  was  prepared  for  the 
sudden  knifelike  menace  of  Gordon  Makimmon's 
voice  as  he  bent  over  the  dog  and  wiped  the  blood 
upon  his  sleeve. 

"  Kick  him  again,  Buck/'  he  said;  "  kick  him 
again  and  see  how  funny  it'll  be/' 

"  Why,  Gordon/'  Buckley  Simmons  protested, 
"  we  were  all  stirring  him  up  a  little;  you  didn't  say 
anything -" 

Makimmon  picked  the  dog  up,  holding  him 
against  his  side,  the  awkward  legs  streaming  down 
in  an  uncomfortable  confusion  of  joints  and  paws. 
"  I  paid  two  hundred  dollars  for  this  dog,"  he  pro- 
nounced, "  as  a  piece  of  dam'  foolishness,  a  sort  of 
drunken  joke  on  Greenstream.  But  it's  no  joke; 
the  two  hundred  was  cheap.  I've  seen  a  lot  of  good 
men — I'm  not  exactly  a  peafowl  myself — but  this 
young  dog's  better 'n  any  man  I  ever  stood  up  to; 
he's  got  more  guts." 

lie  abruptly  turned  his  back  upon  the  gathering 
and  descended  to  the  road,  carrying  the  limp,  warm 
body  all  the  way  home. 


II 

IT  was  his  own  home  to  which  he  returned,  the 
original  dwelling  of  the  Makimmons  in  Greenstream. 
He  could  not,  he  had  told  Lettice,  be  comfortable 
anywhere  else;  he  could  not  be  content  with  it 
closed  against  the  living  sound  of  the  stream,  or 
in  strange  hands.  Some  changes  had  been  made 
since  his  marriage — another  space  had  been  en- 
closed beyond  the  kitchen,  a  chamber  occupied  by 
Sim  Caley  and  his  wife,  moved  from  the  outlying 
farm  where  Lettice  had  spent  her  weeks  of  "  re- 
treat "  throughout  the  passing  summers.  The 
exterior  had  been  painted  leaden-grey,  and  a  shed 
transformed  into  a  small,  serviceable  stable.  But 
the  immediate  surroundings  were  the  same:  the 
primitive  sweep  still  rose  from  the  well,  a  cow  still 
grazed  in  the  dank  grass;  the  stream  slipped  by, 
mirroring  its  stable  banks,  the  foliage  inexhaustibly 
replenished  by  nature;  beyond  the  narrow  valley 
the  mountain  range  shut  out  the  rising  sun,  closed 
Greenstream  into  its  deep,  verdurous  gorge. 

High  above,  the  veil  of  light  was  still  rosy,  but  it 
was  dusk  about  Gordon  Makimmon's  dwelling. 
Lettice,  in  white,  with  a  dark  shawl  drawn  about 
her  shoulders,  was  standing  on  the  porch.  She 
spoke  in  a  strain  of  querulous  sweetness: 

"  Gordon,  you've  been  the  longest  while.  Mrs. 

138 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  139 

Caley  says  your  supper's  all  spoiled.  You  know 
she  likes  to  get  the  table  cleared  right  early  in  the 
evening/' 

lf  Is  Mrs.  Caley  to  have  her  say  in  this  house  or 
am  I  ?  That's  what  I  want  to  know.  Am  I  to  eat 
so's  she  can  clear  the  table,  or  is  she  to  clear  the 
table  when  I  have  had  my  supper  ?" 

'  When  it  suits  you,  Gordon,  of  course.  Oh, 
Gordon  !  whatever  are  you  carrying  ?" 

"  A  dog  !" 

"  I  didn't  know  you  wanted  a  dog."  An  accent 
of  doubt  crept  into  her  voice,  a  hesitation.  "  I  don't 
know  if  I  want  a  dog  around  .  .  .  just  now, 
Gordon." 

"  He  won't  do  any  harm;  he's  only  a  young  dog, 
anyhow.  Ain't  you  a  young  dog,  a  regular  puppy  ? 
But,  Lettice,  he's  got  the  grit  of  General  Jackson; 
he  stood  right  up  against  the  crowd  at  the  store." 

"  Still,  Gordon,  right  now- 

"  I  told  you  he  wouldn't  do  any  harm,"  the  man 
repeated  in  irritated  tones;  "  he  will  be  with  me 
most  of  the  time ,  and  not  around  the  house .  You're 
getting  too  cranky  for  living,  Lettice."  He  set  the 
dog  upon  his  feet.  '  What  111  call  him  I  don't 
know;  he's  as  gritty  as — why,  yes,  I  do,  I'll  call  him 
General  Jackson.  C'm  here,  General." 

The  dog  still  wavered  slightly.  He  stood  intently 
regarding  Gordon.  "  Here,  here,  General  Jackson." 
After  another  long  scrutiny  he  walked  slowly  up 
to  Gordon,  raised  his  head  toward  the  man's 
countenance.  Gordon  Makimmon  was  delighted. 
'  That's  a  smart  dog  !"  he  exclaimed;  "  smarter'n 
half  the  people  I  know.  He's  got  to  have  some- 
thing to  eat.  Lettice,  will  you  tell  Mrs.  Caley  to 


140  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

give  General  something  to  eat,  and  nothing's  too 
good  for  him,  either/' 

Lettice  walked  to  the  door  of  the  kitchen  and 
transmitted  Gordon's  request  to  the  invisible  Mrs. 
Caley.  The  latter  appeared  after  a  moment  and 
stood  gazing  sombrely  at  the  man  and  the  dog.  She 
was  a  tall,  ungainly  woman,  with  a  flat,  sexless  body 
and  a  deeply-lined  face  almost  the  colour  of  her  own 
salt-raised  bread.  '  This  is  General  Jackson," 
Gordon  explained  out  of  the  settling  dark;  "  he'd 
thank  you  for  a  panful  of  supper.  Come  on, 
General,  come  on  in  the  kitchen.  No,  Mrs.  Caley 
won't  bite  you;  she'll  give  us  something  to  eat." 

The  room  next  to  the  kitchen,  that  had  been 
Clare's,  had  been  stripped  of  its  furnishing  and  a 
glistening  yellow  pine  table  set  in  the  middle,  with 
six  painted  wood  chairs.  The  table  was  perpetu- 
ally spread  on  a  fringed  red  or  blue  cloth,  the 
centre  occupied  by  a  large  silver-plated  castor,  its 
various  rings  filled  with  differently  shaped  bottles 
and  shakers.  At  the  end  where  Lettice  sat,  heavy 
white  cups  and  saucers  were  piled;  at  Gordon's 
place  a  knife  and  fork  were  propped  up  on  their 
guards.  On  either  side  were  the  plates  of  Simeon 
and  Mrs.  Caley.  Each  place  boasted  a  knife  and 
formidable  steel  fork — the  spoons  were  assembled 
in  a  glass  receptacle — and  a  napkin  thrust  into  a 
ring  of  plaited  hair  plainly  marked  with  the  sign  of 
the  respective  owner. 

Mrs.  Caley  silently  put  before  Gordon  a  pinkish 
loin  of  pork,  boiled  potatoes,  and  a  bowl  of  purple, 
swimming  huckleberries;  this  she  fortified  by  a 
vessel  of  gravy  and  section  of  pie.  There  was  tea. 
"  Where's  Lettice  ?"  Gordon  demanded.  Appar- 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  141 

ently  Mrs.  Caley  had  not  heard  him.  "  Lettice,"  he 
raised  his  voice;  "  here's  supper/' 

"  I  don't  want  anything  to  eat,  thank  you, 
Gordon,"  she  returned  from  another  room. 

'  You  ought  to  eat,"  he  called  back,  attacking  the 
pork.  Then  he  muttered,  "  — full  of  ideas  and 
airs.  Soft." 


Ill 

BEYOND  the  dining-room  was  their  bedroom,  and 
beyond  that  a  chamber  which,  for  years  in  a  state 
of  deserted  semi-ruin,  Gordon  had  had  newly 
floored  and  rendered  weather-proof,  and  now  used 
as  a  place  of  assemblage.  He  found  Lettice  there 
when  he  had  finished  supper. 

She  was  sitting  beside  a  small  table  which  held  a 
lighted  lamp  with  a  shade  of  minute  woven  pieces 
of  various  silks.  Behind  her  was  a  cottage  organ, 
a  mass  of  fretted  woodwork;  a  wall  pierced  by  a 
window  was  ornamented  by  a  framed  photograph 
of  a  woman  dead  and  in  her  coffin.  The  photo- 
graph had  faded  to  a  silvery  monotony,  but  the  de- 
tails of  the  rigid,  unnatural  countenance,  the  fixed 
staring  eyes,  were  still  clear.  Redly  varnished 
chairs  with  green  plush  cushions  and  elaborate 
thread  antimacassars,  a  second  table  ranged  against 
the  wall,  bearing  a  stout  volume  entitled  "  A  Cloud 
of  Witnesses,"  and  a  cheap  phonograph,  completed 
the  furnishing. 

It  was  warm  without,  but  Lettice  had  shut  the 
window,  and  the  shawl  was  still  about  her  shoulders. 
She  was  sewing  upon  a  small  piece  of  white  material. 

'  Here,  General,  here/'  Gordon  commanded,  and 
the  dog  followed  him  seriously  into  the  room .  ' '  Pat 
him,  Lettice,  so's  he'll  get  to  know  you,"  he  urged. 

142 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  143 

"  I  don't  think  I  want  to,"  she  began;  but,  at  her 
husband's  obvious  impatience,  she  experimented 
doubtfully,  "  Here,  puppy/' 

"  Can't  you  call  him  by  his  name  ?"  he  inter- 
rupted. "  How  ever  11  he  come  to  know  it  ?" 

Sl  I  don't  want  to  call  him  at  all,"  she  protested, 
a  little  wildly.  "  I  don't  like  him  to-night;  perhaps 
to-morrow  I  will  feel  different." 

'  Well,  do  or  don't,  that  dog's  a  part  of  the  house, 
and  I  don't  want  to  hear  Mrs.  Caley  say  this  or  that 
about  it,  neither." 

"  Mrs.  Caley  isn't  as  bad  as  you  make  her  out; 
it's  me  she's  thinking  about  most  of  the  time.  I  tell 
her  men  are  not  like  women :  they  never  think  about 
the  little  things  we  do.  Father  was  like  that  .  .  . 
you  are  too.  That's  all  the  men  I  have  known." 
Her  voice  trailed  off  into  an  abrupt  silence ;  she  sat 
staring  into  the  room,  with  the  needlework  forgotten 
in  her  hand. 

Gordon  turned  to  the  dog,  playing  with  him,  pull- 
ing his  ears.  General  Jackson,  in  remonstrance, 
softly  bit  Gordon's  hand.  '  That's  a  dandy  dog. 
Making  yourself  right  at  home,  hey  !  Biting  right 
back,  are  you  !  Let  me  feel  your  teeth.  Phew 

"  Gordon,"  Lettice  exclaimed  suddenly  in  a 
throaty  voice,  "I'm  afraid.  .  .  .  Tell  me  it  will 
be  all  right,  Gordon." 

He  looked  up  from  the  dog,  startled  by  the  un- 
accustomed vibration  of  her  tones.  "  Of  course  it 
will  be  all  right,"  he  reassured  her  hastily,  making 
an  effort  to  keep  his  impatience  from  his  voice;  "  I 
never  guessed  you  were  so  easy  scared." 

"  I'll  try  not,"  she  returned  obediently.  "  Mrs. 
Caley  says  it  will  be  all  right,  too."  She  seemed, 


144  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

he  thought,  even  younger  than  when  he  had  married 
her.  She  was  absurdly  girlish.  It  annoyed  him; 
it  seemed,  unjustly,  to  place  too  great  a  demand 
upon  his  forbearance,  his  patience.  A  wife  should 
be  able  to  give  and  take — this  was  almost  like 
having  a  child  to  tend.  Lately  she  had  been 
frightened  even  at  the  dark;  she  had  wakened  him 
over  nothing  at  all,  fancies. 

He  decided  to  pay  no  further  attention  to  her 
imagining,  and  moved  to  the  phonograph,  where  he 
selected  one  of  a  small  number  of  waxy  cylinders. 
"  We'll  see  how  the  General  likes  music/'  he  pro- 
claimed. He  slipped  the  cylinder  over  a  projection 
and  wound  the  mechanism.  A  sharp,  high  scratch- 
ing responded,  as  painful  as  a  pin  dragging  over  the 
ear  drum,  a  meaningless  cacophony  of  sounds  that 
gradually  resolved  into  a  thin,  incredibly  metallic 
melody  which  appeared,  mercifully,  to  come  from 
a  distance.  To  this  was  presently  joined  a  voice, 
the  voice,  as  it  were,  of  a  sinister  tin  mannikin 
galvanized  into  convulsive  song.  The  words  grew 
audible  in  broken  phrases : 

.  .  .  was  a  lucky  man, 

Kip  van  Winkle  .  .  .  grummmble 

.  .  .  never  saw  the  women 

At  Coney  Island  swimming  .  .  . 

General  Jackson  sat  abruptly  on  his  haunches 
and  lifted  a  long,  quavering  protest.  As  the  cylinder 
went  round  and  round,  and  the  shrill  performance 
continued,  the  dog's  howling  grew  wilder;  it  reached 
a  point  where  it  broke  into  a  hoarse  cough;  then  it 
recommenced  lower  in  the  scale,  carrying  over  a 
gamut  of  indescribable,  audible  misery. 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  145 

Gordon  slapped  his  leg  in  acute  enjoyment.  "  The 
General's  a  regular  opera  singer,  a  high-rolling 
canary.  Go  after  it  ...  a  regular  concert  dog." 

"  Gordon,"  Lettice  said,  in  a  small,  strained 
voice.  Apparently  he  had  not  heard  her.  "  Gor- 
don," she  repeated  more  loudly.  She  had  dropped 
the  piece  of  sewing,  her  hands  were  clenched,  her  face 
wet  and  pallid.  "  Gordon  !"  she  cried,  her  voice 
cutting  through  the  sound  of  the  phonograph  and 
the  howling  dog;  "  stop  it,  do  you  hear  !  I'll  go 
crazy  !  Stop  it !  Stop  it !  Stop  it !" 

He  silenced  the  machine  in  genuine  surprise. 
"  Why,  everything  works  you  up  to-night.  I 
thought  you'd  like  to  hear  General  Jackson  sing; 
he's  got  a  real  deep  barytone." 

Lettice  sat  limply  in  her  chair.  "  I  stood  it  just  as 
long  as  I  could,"  she  half  whispered. 

Gordon  walked  to  the  unshuttered  window,  gazing 
out;  above  the  impenetrable,  velvety  dark^of  the 
western  range  the  stars  gleamed  like  drops  of  water. 
He  felt  unsettled,  ill  at  ease;  dissatisfaction  irked 
his  thoughts  and  emotions.  His  unrest  was  without 
tangible  features;  it  permeated  him  from  an  un- 
divined  cause,  oppressed  him  with  indefinable 
longing.  He  got,  he  dimly  realized,  but  a  limited 
amount  of  satisfaction  from  the  money  now  at  his 
command.  He  was  totally  without  financial  instinct 
— money  for  itself,  the  abstraction,  was  beyond  his 
comprehension.  He  had  bought  a  ponderous  gold 
watch,  which  he  continually  neglected  to  wind ;  the 
years  of  stage  driving  had  sated  him  of  horses;  his 
clothes  were  already  a  subject  of  jest  in  Green- 
stream;  and  he  had  seriously  damaged  his  throat, 
and  the  throat  of  Sim  Caley,  with  cigars.  He  had 

10 


146  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

been  glad  to  return  to  the  familiar,  casual  cigarettes, 
the  generous  bag  of  Green  Goose  for  five  cents; 
Sim  had  reverted  to  his  haggled  plug.  He  had  no 
desire  to  build  a  pretentious  dwelling — his  instinct, 
his  clannish  spirit,  was  too  closely  bound  up  in  the 
house  of  his  father  and  grandfather  to  derive  any 
pleasure  from  that. 

After  he  had  spent  a  limited  amount,  the  principal 
at  his  disposal  lay  untouched,  unrealized.  He  got 
a  certain  measure  of  content  from  its  sheer  bulk 
at  his  back;  it  ministered  to  his  vanity,  to  his 
supreme  self-importance.  He  liked  negligently  to 
produce,  in  Simmons's  store,  a  twenty-  or  even 
fifty-dollar  currency  note,  and  then  conduct  a 
search  through  his  pockets  for  something  smaller. 
He  drank  an  adequate  amount  of  whisky,  receiving 
it  in  jugs  semi- surreptitiously  by  way  of  the  Stenton 
stage;  Greenstream  County  was  "  dry,"  but  whisky 
in  gallons  was  comparatively  inexpensive.  He 
would  have  gambled,  but  two  dollars  was  a 
momentous  hazard  to  the  habitual  card  players  of 
the  village.  He  thought,  occasionally,  of  taking  a 
short  trip,  of  two  or  three  days,  to  neighbourin 
cities  outside  his  ken,  or  to  the  ocean — Gordon  ha< 
never  seen  a  large  body  of  water — but  his  life  had 
travelled  such  a  narrow  course,  he  was  so  accus- 
tomed by  blood  and  experience  to  the  feel  of  the 
mountains,  that,  when  the  moment  arrived  to  con- 
sider an  actual  departure,  he  drew  back  .  .  .  put 
it  off. 

What  he  was  subconsciously  longing  for  was 
youth.  He  was  instinctively  rebelling,  struggling, 
against  the  closing  fetters  of  time,  against  the  dilu- 
tion of  his  blood  by  time,  the  hardening  of  his  bones, 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  147 

the  imperceptible  slackening  of  his  muscles.  His 
intimate  contact  with  the  vigorous  youth  of  Lettice 
had  precipitated  this  rebellion,  this  strife  in  which 
he  was  doomed.  He  would  have  hotly  repudiated 
the  insinuation  that  he  was  growing  old;  he  would 
still,  perhaps,  have  fought  the  man  who  said  that  he 
was  failing.  And  such  a  statement  would  be  beside 
the  fact ;  no  perceptible  decay  had  yet  set  up  at  the 
heart  of  his  manhood.  But  the  inception  of  that 
process  was  imminent;  the  sloth  consequent  upon 
Lettice's  money  was  hastening  it. 

Lettice's  youthful  aspect,  persisting  in  the  face  of 
her  approaching  motherhood,  disconcerted  him;  it 
was  inappropriate.  Her  freshly-flushed,  rounded 
cheeks  beside  his  own  weather-beaten,  lean  jaw 
offered  a  comment  too  obvious  for  enjoyment.  He 
resented,  from  his  own  depleting  store,  her  unspent 
sum  of  days.  It  created  in  him  an  animosity  which, 
as  he  turned  from  the  window,  noted  almost  with 
relief  faint  lines  about  her  mouth,  the  sinking  of  her 
colour. 

She  was  sitting  with  her  eyes  shut,  the  sewing 
neglected  in  her  lap,  and  did  not  see  Mrs.  Caley 
standing  in  the  doorway.  The  woman's  gaze 
lingered  for  a  moment,  with  an  unmasked,  burning 
contempt,  upon  Gordon  Makimmon,  then  swept  on 
to  the  girl. 

"  Lettice  !"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  species  of  exas- 
perated concern,  "  don't  you  know  better  than  to 
sit  up  to  all  hours  ?" 


IV 

THE  following  morning,  "  Oh,  Gordon  !"  Lettice 
cried,  "  I  like  Mm  ever  so  much;  he  played  and 
played  with  me." 

Gordon  had  gone  to  the  post-office,  and  was 
descending  the  slope  from  the  public  road  to  his 
dwelling.  He  found  Lettice  sitting  on  the  edge  of 
the  porch,  and,  panting  vigorously,  the  dog 
extended  before  her,  an  expression  of  idiotic  satis- 
faction on  his  shaggy  face.  They  were,  together, 
an  epitome  of  extreme  youth;  and  Gordon's  dis- 
content, revived  from  the  night  before,  overflowed 
in  facile  displeasure. 

"  Don't  you  know  better  than  to  run  him  on  a 
warm  morning  like  this  ?"  he  complained;  "  as  like 
as  not  now  he'll  take  a  fit;  young  dogs  mustn't  get 
their  blood  heated  up." 

The  animation  died  from  her  countenance,  leaving 
it  almost  sullen;  her  shoulders  drooped  dejectedly. 
"  It  seems  nothing  suits  you,"  she  observed; 
"  you're  cross  when  I  don't  like  the  dog  and  you're 
cross  when  I  do.  I  can't  satisfy  you,  anyhow." 

'  There's  some  difference  in  making  over  the  dog 
and  playing  him  out.  Come  here,  General  Jack- 
son." The  animal  rose  and  yapped,  backing  play- 
fully away.  "  Don't  you  hear  me  ?  Come  right 
here."  The  dog,  sensitive  to  the  growing  menace  in 

H8 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  149 

the  voice,  moved  still  further  away.  "  C'm  here, 
damn  you,"  Gordon  shot  out.  The  dog  grew 
stubborn  and  refused  to  move  forward;  and  Gordon, 
his  anger  thoroughly  aroused,  picked  up  a  large 
stone  and  threw  it  with  all  his  force,  missing  General 
Jackson  by  a  narrow  margin. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  Lettice  observed  in  a  studious, 
detached  voice,  "  I  wouldn't  throw  stones  at  a  dog 
I  had  paid  two  hundred  dollars  for." 

Gordon  was  momentarily  disconcerted.  He  had 
not  intended  to  tell  Lettice  how  much  the  General 
had  cost.  And  yet,  he  reflected,  since  the  village 
knew,  with  Sim  Caley's  wife  in  the  house  it  had 
been  folly  to  hope  to  keep  it  from  her. 

"  It's  his  pedigree,"  he  explained  lamely; 
"  champion  stock,  imported."  His  temper  again 
slowly  got  the  better  of  his  wisdom.  '  What  if  I 
did  pay  two  hundred  dollars  for  him  ?"  he  de- 
manded ;  "  it's  harmless,  ain't  it  ?  I'd  a  sight  better 
do  that  than  some  other  things  I  might  mention." 

"  I  only  said,"  she  repeated  impersonally,  "  that 
I  would  not  throw  stones  at  a  dog  that  had  cost  so 
much  money." 

'  You're  getting  on  the  money  now,  are  you  ? 
Going  to  start  that  song  ?  That'll  come  natural  to 
you.  When  I  first  married  you  I  couldn't  see  how 
you  were  old  Pompey's  daughter,  but  I  might  have 
known  it  would  come  out.  I  might  have  known  you 
weren't  the  daughter  of  the  meanest  man  in  Green- 
stream  for  nothing.  ...  I  suppose  I'll  hear  about 
that  money  all  the  rest  of  my  life." 

"  Perhaps  I  will  die,  and  then  you  will  have  no 
bother." 

"  That's  a  nice  way  to  talk;  that  makes  me  out 


150  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

a  fine  figure  of  a  man  .  .  .  with  Mrs.  Caley  in  the 
kitchen  there,  laying  right  over  every  word;  the  old 
vinegar  bottle." 

"  Don't  you  say  another  word  about  Mrs.  Caley," 
Lettice  declared  passionately;  "  she  nursed  my 
mother  in  her  last  sickness;  and  she  took  care  of 
me  for  years,  when  there  wasn't  anybody  else  hardly 
knew  if  I  was  alive  or  not.  If  it  wasn't  for  Mrs. 
Caley  right  now  I  guess  I'd  be  in  an  early  grave." 

Gordon  Makimmon  stood  silenced  by  the  last 
outburst.  The  tall,  meagre  figure  of  Mrs.  Caley 
appeared  upon  the  porch.  She  was  clad  in  black 
calico,  and  wore  grey  felt  slippers.  Her  head  was 
lowered,  her  closed  lips  quivered,  her  bony  fingers 
twitched.  She  never  addressed  a  word  to  Gordon 
directly;  and,  he  decided,  when  she  did,  it  would  be 
monumental,  dumbfounding.  The  present  moment 
was  more  than  usually  unpropitious ;  and,  discover- 
ing General  Jackson  at  his  heels,  he  picked  the  dog 
up  and  departed  for  the  stable,  where  he  saw  Sim 
Caley  putting  the  horse  into  the  buggy. 

"  I  thought  I'd  go  over  to  the  farm  be}^ond  the 
priest's,"  he  answered  Gordon's  query;  "  Tol'able's 
an  awful  slack  hand  with  cattle." 

'  Your  wife  ought  to  run  that  place ;  she'd  walk 
those  steers  around  on  a  snake  fence." 

Simeon  Caley  preserved  a  diplomatic  silence. 
He,  too,  was  long  and  lean.  He  had  eyes  of  the 
most  innocent  and  tender  blue  imaginable,  in  a 
countenance  seamed  and  scarred  by  protracted  de- 
bauch, disease,  abuse.  It  was  said  of  him  that  if 
all  the  liquor  he  had  consumed  were  turned  loose  on 
the  mountain  it  would  sweep  Greenstream  village  to 
the  farther  end  of  the  valley. 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  151 

His  voice,  like  his  eyes,  was  gentle.  "  Come  right 
along,  Gord;  there's  some  draining  you  ought  to 
see  to.  It's  a  nice  drive,  anyways."  Gordon  took 
the  reins,  slapping  them  on  the  rough  sturdy  back 
of  the  horse,  and  they  started  up  the  precarious  track 
to  the  road.  General  Jackson's  head  hung  panting, 
wild-eyed,  from  the  side  of  the  vehicle. 


IT  was  late  when  they  returned  from  the  farm. 
Gordon  left  the  buggy  at  the  Courthouse.  The 
thought  of  his  dwelling,  with  Lettice's  importunate 
fancies  and  complaints,  was  distasteful  to  him. 
A  long-drawn-out  evening  in  the  monotonous  sitting- 
room,  with  the  grim  form  of  Mrs.  Caley  in  the  back- 
ground, was  insupportable.  There  was  no  light  in 
the  office  of  the  Bugle,  but  there  was  a  pale  yellow 
blur  in  the  lower  windows  of  Peterman's  hotel.  It 
might  be  that  a  drummer  had  arrived,  and  was 
entertaining  a  local  circle  with  the  pungent  wit  of  the 
road;  and  Gordon  made  his  way  toward  the  hotel. 

It  was  a  painted  wooden  structure,  two  stories  in 
height,  with  a  wing  that  ran  back  from  the  road. 
The  rooms  in  the  latter  section  were  reached  from 
an  outside  uncovered  gallery,  gained  by  a  flight  of 
steps  at  the  back.  Contrary  to  his  expectation,  no 
one  was  in  the  office;  a  lamp  shone  on  an  empty 
array  of  chairs.  But  some  one  was  on  the  gallery 
above ;  he  could  see  a  white  skirt  through  the  railing, 
make  out  the  dark  blot  of  a  head  upon  the  night. 
The  illumination  from  within  shone  on  his  face. 

The  form  above  him  leaned  forward  over  the  rail- 
ing. "  Mr.  Makimmon,"  a  woman's  voice  said,  "  if 
you  want  Mr.  Peterman,  I'll  call  him.  He's  at  the 
back  of  the  house." 

152 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  153 

Gordon  was  totally  unaware  of  her  identity. 

"  No,"  he  replied,  hesitatingly,  "  I  wasn't  after 
him  in  particular " 

'  You  don't  know  me,"  she  challenged,  laughing; 
"  it's  Meta  Beggs;  I  teach  the  school,  you  know." 

Instantly  the  memory  returned  to  him  of  a 
woman's  round,  gleaming  shoulders  slipping  into  a 
web  of  soft  white;  he  recalled  the  school-teacher's 
bitter  arraignment  of  her  life,  her  prospects.  "  I 
didn't  know  you,"  he  admitted,  "  and  that's  the 
fact;  it  was  the  dark."  He  hesitated  once  more, 
conscious  of  the  awkwardness  of  his  position,  talking 
upward  to  an  indistinguishable  shape.  "  I  heard 
you  were  back,"  he  continued  impotently. 

"  Yes,"  she  assented,  "  there  was  nothing  else 
open.  .  .  .  Won't  you  come  up  and  smoke  a 
cigarette  ?  It's  pleasant  here  on  the  gallery." 

He  mounted  the  steps,  making  his  way  over  the 
narrow,  hollow-sounding  passage  to  her  side.  She 
was  seated  overlooking  the  rift  of  the  valley.  "I'll 
get  you  a  chair,"  she  said,  rising.  At  her  side  a 
door  opened  into  a  dim  room.  "  No,  no,"  he  pro- 
tested, "  let  me — in  here  ?" 

He  entered  the  room.  It  was,  he  divined,  hers. 
His  foot  struck  against  a  chair,  and  his  hand  caught 
the  back.  A  thin,  clinging  under-garment  rested 
on  it,  which  he  deposited  on  a  vague  bed.  It  stuck 
to  his  fingers  like  a  cobweb.  There  was  just  room 
on  the  balcony  to  arrange  the  chairs  side  by  side. 


VI 

THE  spring  night  was  potent,  warm  and  damp; 
it  was  filled  with  intangible  influences  which 
troubled  the  mind  and  stirred  the  memory  to  vain, 
melancholy  groping.  Meta  Beggs  was  so  close  to 
Gordon  that  their  shoulders  touched.  He  rolled  a 
cigarette  and  lit  it,  resting  his  arms  upon  the  railing. 
Her  face  was  white  in  the  gloom;  not  white  as 
Lettice's  had  been,  like  a  flower,  but  sharply  cut 
like  marble;  her  nose  was  finely  modelled,  her  lips 
were  delicately  curved,  but  thin,  compressed.  He 
could  distinguish  over  her  the  paramount  air  of 
dissatisfaction. 

She  aroused  in  him  unbidden  thoughts;  without 
the  slightest  freedom  of  gesture  or  words  she  gave 
the  impression  of  careless  licence.  He  grew  in- 
stinctively, at  once,  familiar,  confidential,  in  his 
attitude  toward  her.  And  she  responded  in  the 
same  manner;  she  did  not  draw  back  when  their 
arms  accidentally  met. 

An  interest,  a  vivacity  of  manner,  such  as  Gordon 
had  not  experienced  for  weeks  stirred  in  him.  Meta 
Beggs  called  back  into  being  the  old  freedom  of  stage- 
driving  days,  of  the  younger  years.  Her  manner 
flattered  his  sex  vanity.  They  progressed  famously. 

"  You  don't  like  the  children  any  better  than  you 
did  ?" 

"  They  get  more  like  rats  every  year." 

154 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  155 

"  I  thought  about  you,  held  against  your  will." 

"  Don't  tell  lies;  I  went  right  out  of  your  mind." 

"  Not  as  quick  as  I  went  out  of  yours.  I  did 

think  about  you,  though "  He  stopped,  but  she 

insisted  upon  his  finishing  the  remark.  '  Well,  I 
remembered  what  you  said  about  your  shoulders, 
and  I  saw  you  that  night  at  your  window.  ..." 

"  Men,  somehow,  are  always  curious  about  me," 
she  remarked  indifferently ;  "  they  have  bothered  me 
ever  since  I  was  a  girl.  I  make  them  mad.  I  never 
worry  about  such  things  myself — from  the  way 
women  talk,  and  men  go  on,  there  must  be  some- 
thing left  out  of  me  ...  it  just  seems  silly  to  get 
all  red  in  the  face " 

He  almost  constructed  her  words  into  a  challenge. 
Five  years  ago,  he  continued,  or  only  two,  he  would 
have  changed  her  conception  of  living,  he  would 

have  broken  down  her  indifference,  but  now 

His  mental  deliberations  ended  abruptly,  for,  even 
in  his  mind,  he  avoided  all  reference  to  Lettice ;  they 
studiously  omitted  her  name  in  their  conversation. 

"  Are  you  going  to  the  camp  meeting  on  South 
Fork  next  week  ?"  she  demanded.  "  I  have  never 
seen  one.  Buckley  Simmons  says  all  sorts  of  things 
happen.  He's  going  to  take  me  on  Saturday.  I 
wish '  She  broke  off  pointedly. 

"What?" 

"  I  was  going  to  say  that  I  wish — well,  I  wish  I 
were  going  with  somebody  else  than  Buckley;  he 
bothers  me  all  the  time." 

"  I'd  like  a  lot  to  take  you.  It's  not  fit  for  you 
to  go,  though.  The  best  people  in  Greenstream 
don't.  They  get  crazy  with  religion,  and  with  rum; 
often  as  not  there's  shooting." 


156  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

"  Oh  !  I  had  no  idea.  I  don't  know  as  I  will  go. 
I  wish  you  would  be  there.  If  I  go,  will  you  be 
there  to  look  out  for  me  ?" 

"  I  hadn't  thought  of  it.  Still,  if  you're  there,  and 
want  me  around,  I  guess  that's  where  I  will  be." 

"  I  feel  better  right  away;  I'll  see  you,  then;  it's  a 
sort  of  engagement  between  you  and  me.  Buckley 
Simmons  needn't  know.  Perhaps  we  can  slip  away 
from  him  for  a  while." 

Voices  rose  from  below  them,  and  they  drew  back 
instinctively.  Gordon  found  in  this  desire  to  avoid 
observation  an  additional  bond  with  Meta  Beggs; 
the  aspect  of  secrecy  gave  a  flavour  to  their  com- 
munion .  They  remained  silent,  with  their  shoulders 
pressed  together,  until  the  voices,  the  footfalls, 
faded  into  the  distance. 

He  rose  to  go,  and  she  held  out  her  hand.  At 
its  touch  he  recalled  how  pointed  the  fingers  were; 
it  was  incredibly  cool  and  smooth,  yet  it  seemed  to 
instil  a  subtle  fire  into  his  palm.  She  stood  framed 
in  her  doorway,  bathed  in  the  intimate,  disturbing 
aroma  of  her  person.  Gordon  recalled  the  cob- 
webby garment  on  the  bed.  He  made  an  involun- 
tary step  toward  her,  and  she  drew  back  into  the 
room  .  .  .  the  night  was  breathlessly  still.  If  he 
took  another  step  forward,  he  wondered,  wrould  she 
still  retreat  ?  Somewhere  in  the  dark  interior  he 
would  come  close  to  her. 

"  Good  night."  Her  level,  impersonal  voice  was 
like  a  breath  of  cold  air  upon  his  face. 

"  Good  night,"  he  returned  hastily.  "  I  got 
turned  right  around."  His  departure  over  the 
gallery  was  not  unlike  a  flight. 


VII 

THE  memory  of  Meta  Beggs  was  woven  like  a  bright 
thread  through  the  monotonous  texture  of  the  days 
which  immediately  followed.  She  was  never  en- 
tirely out  of  his  thoughts ;  she  stirred  him  out  of  all 
proportion  to  any  assignable  cause;  she  irritated 
him.  He  remembered  that  she  had  said  she  made 
men  "  mad/'  He  recalled  how  ridiculous  he  had 
felt  as  he  had  said  "  Good  night/'  He  wished  to 
repay  her  for  that  injury  to  his  self-esteem. 

At  the  same  time,  curiously,  he  was  more  patient 
with  Lettice,  he  had  a  more  ready  sympathy  for  her 
intangible  fancies.  Perhaps  for  the  first  time  he 
enjoyed  sitting  quietly  on  the  porch  of  his  house 
with  her  and  General  Jackson.  He  sat  answering 
her  endless  queries,  fears,  assenting  half -absently 
to  her  projections,  with  the  thought  of  Meta  Beggs 
at  the  back  of  his  mind.  He  wanted  to  be  as  nice 
as  possible  to  Lettice.  Suddenly  she  seemed  a  little 
removed  from  him,  from  the  world  in  general,  the 
world  of  the  emotions  and  ideas  that  centred  about 
the  school-teacher. 

Lettice  was — superior;  he  recognized  it  pride- 
fully.  Behind  her  temporary  irrational  vagaries 
there  was  a  quality  of  steadfastness.  It  was  clear 
to  him  now  from  its  contrast  to  his  own  devious 
mind.  But  he  found  a  sharp  pleasure  in  the  mental 

157 


158  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

image  of  the  Beggs  woman.  He  recalled  the  burn- 
ing sensation  that  had  lingered  in  his  palm  from  the 
touch  of  her  hand,  the  pressure  of  her  shoulder 
against  his  as  they  had  drawn  back  from  the  vision 
of  those  below. 

He  went  early  to  the  camp  meeting  on  the 
Saturday  appointed. 


VIII 

HE  drove,  over  the  road  that  lay  at  the  base  of  the 
western  range,  away  from  his  dwelling  and  Green- 
stream  village.  The  mature  spring  day  had  almost 
the  appearance  of  summer;  the  valley  was  flooded 
with  sparkling  sunlight;  but  the  young  leaves  were 
still  red,  the  greenery  still  translucent,  the  trees 
black  with  risen  sap.  The  buggy  rolled  through 
the  shallow,  rocky  fords,  the  horse's  hoofs  flinging 
up  the  water  in  shining  drops.  The  road  rose 
slightly,  turning  to  the  right,  where  an  intermediate 
valley  lay  diagonally  through  the  range.  Save  for 
small  scattered  farms  the  bottomland  was  uncul- 
tivated, the  tangled  brush  impenetrable. 

Gordon  passed  other  vehicles,  bound  toward  the 
camp  meeting,  usually  a  single  seat  crowded  with 
three,  or  even  four,  adult  forms.  He  passed  flat 
wagons  with  their  bottoms  filled  with  straw,  on 
which  women  sat  with  stiffly-extended  legs.  The 
young  women  wore  gay  colours,  their  eyes  sparkled 
in  hardy  faces,  their  hands,  broad  and  red  and 
capable,  awkwardly  disposed.  The  older  women, 
with  shawls  folded  about  their  stooped  shoulders, 
were  close-lipped,  sombre.  The  men  were  sparely 
built,  with  high,  prominent  cheek  bones,  long, 
hollow  cheeks,  and  shaven  mouths  touched  with 
sardonic  humour,  under  undented  black  felt  hats. 

159 


160  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

There  were  an  appreciable  number  of  invalids  and 
leaden-faced  idiots. 

The  way  grew  wilder,  the  natural  forms  shrunk, 
the  valley  became  a  small  plain  of  broken,  rocky 
hillocks  matted  with  thorny  bushes,  surrounded  by 
marshes  of  rank  grass,  flags,  half -grown  osiers. 
The  vehicles,  drawn  into  a  single  way,  crowded  to- 
gether, progressed  slowly.  Gordon  saw  in  the  back 
of  the  buggy  before  him  two  whisky  jugs.  Some 
one  far  ahead  began  to  sing  a  revival  hymn,  and  it 
ran  along  the  line  of  carriages  like  a  trail  of  ignited 
powder.  A  deep  bass  caught  it  behind  Gordon 
Makimmon,  then  the  piercing  soprano  of  a  woman 
farther  back. 

The  camp  meeting  spread  over  a  small  irregular 
plateau  surrounded  by  swamp  and  sluggish  streams. 
Gordon  turned  off  the  road  and  drove  over  a  rough, 
short  descent  to  a  ledge  of  solid  ground  by  a  stream 
and  fringe  of  willows.  The  spring  torrents  had 
subsided,  leaving  the  grass,  the  willows,  covered 
with  a  grey,  crackling  coat  of  mud;  the  air  had  a 
damp,  fetid  smell;  beyond,  the  swamp  bubbled 
gaseously.  The  close  line  of  hitched  teams  disap- 
peared about  an  elbow  of  the  thicket ;  groups  of  men 
gathered  in  the  noisome  shadows,  bottles  were 
passed,  heads  thrown  back  and  arms  bent  aloft. 

Above,  a  great  sagging  tent  was  staked  to  the 
obdurate  ground.  To  the  left  a  wooden  floor  had 
been  temporarily  laid  about  a  four-square  open 
counter,  now  bare,  with  a  locked  shed  for  storage. 
Before  Gordon  was  the  sleeping  tent  for  women. 
The  sun  seemed  unable  to  dispel  the  miasma  of  the 
swamp,  the  surrounding  aspect  of  mean  desolation. 
The  scene  was  petty,  depressing.  It  was  surcharged 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  161 

by  a  curious  air  of  tension,  of  suspense,  a  brooding, 
treacherous  hysteria,  an  ugly,  raw  emotional 
menace.  A  service  was  in  progress;  a  sustained, 
convulsive  murmur  came  from  within,  a  wordless, 
fluctuating  lament.  Suddenly  it  was  pierced  by  a 
shrill,  high  scream,  a  voice  tormented  out  of  all 
semblance  to  reason.  The  sound  grew  deeper  and 
louder;  it  swung  into  a  rhythm  which  formed  into 
words,  lines,  a  primitive  chant  that  filled  the 
plateau,  swelled  out  over  the  swamp.  It  continued 
for  an  incredible  length  of  time,  rising  to  an  un- 
bearable pitch;  then  it  died  away  in  a  great  gasp. 

A  thin,  sinister  echo  rose  from  among  the  willows 
— emotional,  shrill  curses,  a  brief  raving  outburst 
of  passion,  sharply  punctuated  with  double  shots, 
and  falling  abruptly  to  heavy  silence.  Gordon 
saw  men  obscurely  running  below. 

The  curtained  entrance  to  the  tent  was  pushed 
aside,  and  a  woman  walked  stiffly  out,  her  hands 
clenched,  and  her  glassy  eyes  set  in  a  fixed  stare. 
Her  hat  was  gone,  and  her  grey  hair  lay  upon  one 
shoulder.  She  progressed,  stumbling  blindly  over 
the  inequalities  of  the  ground,  until  she  tripped  on  a 
stone.  She  lay  where  she  had  fallen,  with  her 
muscles  jerking  and  shuddering,  until  a  man 
appeared  from  behind  the  counter  and  dragged  her 
unceremoniously  to  the  women's  shelter. 

Gordon  entered  the  tent  where  the  service  was  in 
progress.  A  subdued  light  filtered  through  the 
canvas  upon  a  horde  that  filled  every  foot  of  space ; 
they  sat  pressed  together  on  long,  rough  boards 
nailed  together  in  the  semblance  of  benches.  On  a 
platform  at  the  farther  side  a  row  of  men  and 
women  sat  against  the  canvas  wall;  to  their  left  a 

11 


162  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

folding  organ  had  been  erected,  and  was  presided 
over  by  a  man  with  a  blurred,  greyish  countenance ; 
while,  standing  at  the  forefront  of  the  platform,  a 
large,  heavy  man  in  a  black  frock  coat  was  address- 
ing the  assemblage .  He  had  a  round ,  pallid ,  smooth 
face  with  long  black  hair  brushed  back  upon  his 
coat-collar,  and  great  soft  white  hands. 

!<  .  .  .  it's  rising,"  he  proclaimed,  in  a  loud,  sing- 
song voice,  "  the  flood  is  rising;  now  it's  about  your 
pockets — praise  God  !  now  it's  above  your  waists. 
It's  rising  !  it's  rising  !  Hallelujah  !  the  sea  of 
redemption  is  rising."  His  voice  rose  with  the 
figurative  flood.  "  At  last  it's  about  your  hearts, 
your  hearts  are  immersed  in  the  Sacred  Tide." 

A  man  beside  Gordon  groaned  and  dropped  upon 
his  knees.  A  woman  cried,  "  God  !  God  !  God  !" 
A  spindling,  overgrown  boy  rose,  fumbling  at  his 
throat.  "  I  can't  breathe,"  he  choked,  "  I  can't— 
His  face  grew  purplish,  congested.  The  tumult 
swelled,  directed,  dominated,  by  the  voice  of  the 
revivalist.  He  dropped  upon  his  knees  and,  amid 
the  sobbing  silence,  pleaded  with  an  invisible  Judge 
hovering,  apparently,  over  a  decision  to  destroy  at 
one  bloody  blow  the  recalcitrant  peoples  of  the 
earth,  the  peoples  of  His  making. 

"  Spare  us,"  he  implored;  "  spare  us,  the  sheep 
of  hell;  lead  us  to  Thy  shining  pasture  .  .  .  still 
water;  lead  us  from  the  great  fire  of  the  eternal  pit, 
from  the  boiling  bodies  of  the  unsaved  ..." 

Gordon  Makimmon  indifferently  regarded  the 
clamour.  The  process  of  "  getting  religion  "  was 
familiar,  commonplace.  He  saw  Tol'able  sitting 
on  a  back  bench;  with  a  mutual  gesture  the  two 
men  rose  and  left  the  tent. 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  163 

"  I  had  to  bring  m'wife,"  Tol'able  explained; 
"  did  you  see  her  sitting  on  the  platform  ?  She's 
one  of  the  main  grievers.  I  got  some  good  licker 
in  the  wagon — better  have  a  comforter." 

They  walked  down  to  a  dusty  two-seated  surrey, 
where,  from  under  a  horse  blanket,  Tollable  pro- 
duced a  small  jug.  He  wiped  the  mouth  on  his 
sleeve  and  passed  it  to  Gordon ;  then  held  the  gurg- 
ling vessel  to  his  open  throat.  '  There  was  some 
hell  raised  last  night/'  he  proceeded;  "  a  man  from 
up  back  had  his  head  busted  with  a  stone,  and  a 
drunken  looney  shot  through  the  women's  tent :  an 
old  girl  hollered  out  they  had  Goddy  right  in  there 
among  'em/' 

'*  They  were  shooting  a  while  back,"  Gordon 
observed  indifferently.  ''Have  you  seen  Buck 
Simmons  here  ?" 

"  No,  I  hain't.    He  wouldn't  be  here  noways." 

Gordon  preserved  a  discreet  silence  in  regard  to 
his  source  of  assurance  of  Buckley's  presence  at  the 
camp  meeting. 

'  Have  another  drink,  Gord." 

The  services  were  temporarily  suspended,  and  the 
throng  emptied  from  the  tent.  A  renewed  sanity 
clothed  them — girls  drew  into  squares  of  giggling 
defence  against  the  verbal  sallies  of  robust-witted 
young  men.  Women  collected  their  offspring, 
gathering  in  circles  about  opened  boxes  of  lunch :  a 
multitude  of  papers  and  box  lids  littered  the 
ground.  A  hot,  steaming  odour,  analogous  to 
coffee,  rose  from  the  crowded  counter.  A  prodigious 
amount  of  raw  whisky  was  consumed  among  the 
vehicles  by  the  stream  and  mud-coated  willows. 

Gordon  slowly  made  his  way  through  the  throng, 


164  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

in  search  of  Meta  Beggs;  perhaps,  after  all,  slie  had 
decided  not  to  come;  he  might  easily  miss  her  in 
that  mob.  It  was  not  clear  in  his  mind  what  he 
should  do  if  he  saw  her.  She  would  be  with  Buckley 
Simmons,  and  there  was  a  wrell  recognized  course  of 
propriety  for  such  occasions :  he  would  be  expected 
merely  to  greet  in  passing  a  girl  accompanying 
another  man.  Any  other  proceeding  would  be  met 
with  instant  resentment.  And  Buckley  Simmons, 
Gordon  knew,  must  still  nurse  a  secret  antagonism 
toward  him.  However,  he  had  disposed  of  Buckley 
in  the  past  ...  if  necessary,  he  could  do  so  again. 
At  the  entrance  to  the  service  tent  the  organist, 
his  countenance  still  livid  in  the  sunlight,  blew  a 
throaty  summons  on  a  cornet,  and  the  crowd  slowly 
trailed  back  within .  In  the  thinning  groups  G  ordon 
saw  the  school-teacher,  clad  in  a  bright  blue  skirt 
and  a  hat  with  a  stiff  blue  feather.  She  was  at 
Buckley's  side,  consuming  a  slice  of  cake  with 
delicate,  precise  motions  of  her  hand,  and  greeting 
with  patent  abstraction  his  solicitous  attentions. 


IX 

META  BEGGS  saw  Gordon  at  the  same  moment,  and, 
without  observation  on  the  part  of  her  escort, 
beckoned  him  to  her.  She  said  promptly: 

"  Mr.  Makimmon,  please  take  care  of  me  while 
Buckley  goes  down  by  those  carriages,  where  we 
saw  you  a  little  while  ago,  and  gets  his  share  of  the 
refreshment  there.  I'm  certain  that  dusty  road 
made  him  as  dry  as  possible." 

Buckley  grinned;  such  frank  feminine  acknow- 
ledgment and  solicitude  for  the  masculine  palate  was 
rare  in  Greenstream.  "  Why,  no,  Miss  Beggs,"  he 
rejoined;  "  I'm  in  good  shape  for  a  while  yet.  I 
got  a  flask  under  the  seat  of  the  buggy " 

"  I  insist  on  your  tending  to  it  at  once.  I  know 
just  how  it  is  with  men — they  have  got  to  have  that 
little  refreshment  .  .  .  don't  you  call  it  '  life  pre- 
server '?  I'll  be  right  by  the  counter  ;  if  Mr. 
Makimmon  will  be  so  kind— 

'  Well,"  Buckley  agreed,  "  a  drink  don't  go  bad 
any  time;  the  road  was  kind  of  dusty.  If  you 
insist,  Miss  Beggs." 

"I  do!  I  do!"  He  turned  and  left  them, 
striding  toward  the  lower  level.  Then: 

'  The  fool !"  she  exclaimed  viciously;  "  my  arm 
is  all  black  and  blue  where  he  pinched  it.  My  skin 
is  not  like  the  hides  on  these  mountain  girls :  it  tears 

165 


166  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

and  bruises  dreadfully  easy,  it's  so  fine.  Let's  go 
back  there."  She  pointed  to  where,  behind  the 
platform  and  counter,  a  path  was  trampled  through 
brush  higher  than  their  heads.  Gordon  glanced 
swiftly  in  the  direction  in  which  Buckley  Simmons 
had  vanished.  "  He  won't  be  back,"  she  added 
contemptuously,  "  for  a  half  hour.  He'll  stay  down 
there  and  drink  rotten  whisky  and  sputter  over 
rotten  stories."  Without  further  parley  she  pro- 
ceeded in  the  direction  indicated;  and,  following 
her,  Gordon  dismissed  Buckley  from  his  thoughts. 

Meta  Beggs  wore  a  shirtwaist  perforated  like  a 
sieve;  through  it  he  saw  flimsy  lace,  a  faded  blue 
ribband,  her  gleaming  shoulders.  In  an  obscure 
turn  of  the  path  she  stopped  and  faced  him.  "  Just 
look,"  she  proclaimed,  unfastening  a  bone  button 
that  held  her  cuff.  She  rolled  her  sleeve  back  over 
her  arm.  High  up,  near  the  soft  under-turning, 
were  visible  the  bluish  prints  of  fingers.  "  You 
see,"  she  added;  "  and  there  are  others  .  .  .  where 
I  can't  show  you." 

"  Buck's  pretty  vigorous  with  the  girls,"  he 
admitted;  "  I  once  dropped  him  down  a  spell  for  it." 
He  was  fascinated  by  her  naked,  shapely  arm ;  it  was 
slender  at  the  wrist,  and  surprisingly  round  above, 
at  a  soft  brown  shadow.  He  was  seized  by  a  desire 
to  touch  it,  and  he  held  her  pointed  elbow  while  he 
examined  the  bruises  more  minutely.  "•  That's  bad," 
he  pronounced;  "  on  that  pretty  skin,  too."  He  was 
confused  by  the  close  proximity  of  her  bare  flesh; 
the  pulse  in  his  neck  beat  visibly. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  motionless;  then,  with 
her  eyes  half  closed,  sulky,  she  drew  away  from 
him  and  rearranged  her  sleeve. 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  167 

The  brush  ended  on  a  slope  where  pine  trees  had 
covered  the  ground  with  a  glossy  mat  of  bronzed 
needles;  and  his  companion  sank  to  a  sitting  posi- 
tion with  her  back  against  a  trunk.  They  were  out- 
side the  influence  of  the  camp  meeting,  beyond  its 
unnatural  excitation.  The  pine  trees  were  black 
against  the  brilliant  day ;  they  might  have  been  cast 
in  iron;  there  was  no  suggestion  of  growth  in  the 
dun  covering  below;  it  was  as  seasonless  where 
they  sat  as  the  sea ;  the  air,  faintly  spiced  and  still, 
seemed  to  have  lain  unchanged  through  countless 
ages. 

Meta  Beggs  sat  motionless,  with  a  look  of  inex- 
pressible boredom  on  her  pale  countenance.  Her 
hands,  Gordon  thought,  were  like  folded  buds  of 
the  mountain  magnolia. 

She  said,  unexpectedly,  "  You're  rich  now,  aren't 
you,  one  of  the  richest  men  in  the  county  ?" 

"  Why  I — I  got  some  money;  that  is,  my  wife 
has." 

She  dismissed,  with  an  impatient  gesture,  the  dis- 
tinction. "  Money  is  life,"  she  continued,  with  a 
perceptible,  envious  longing;  "  it's  freedom,  all  the 
things  worth  having.  It  makes  women — it's  their 
leather  boxes  full  of  rings  and  pins  and  necklaces, 
their  dresses  of  all-over  lace,  their  silk  and  hand- 
scalloped  and  embroidered  underclothes;  it's  their 
fascination  and  chance  and  power " 

"  I  would  like  to  see  you  in  some  of  those  lace 
things,"  he  returned. 

'  Well,  get  them  for  me,"  she  answered  hardily. 

Utterly  unprepared  for  this  direct  attack,  he  was 
thoroughly  disconcerted.  "  Why,  certainly  !"  he 
replied,  laboriously  polite;  "the  next  time — I'll 


168  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

do  it ! — when  I'm  in  Stenton  again  I'll  bring  you  a 
pair  of  silk  stockings." 

"  Black,"  she  said  practically,  "  and  size  eight 
and  a  half.  You  will  like  me  in  black  silk  stock- 
ings," she  added  enigmatically. 

"  I'll  bet,"  he  replied  with  enthusiasm.  "  I  won't 
wait  to  go,  but  send  for  them.  You  would  make 

the  dollars  dance.    You  are  different  from '     He 

was  going  to  say  Lettice,  but,  instinctively,  he 
changed  it  to — "  the  women  around  here.  You've 
got  an  awful  lot  of  ginger  to  you." 

''  I  know  what  I  want,  and  I'm  not  afraid  to  pay 
for  it.  Almost  everybody  wants  the  same  thing — 
plenty  and  pleasure — but  they're  afraid  of  the  price; 
they  are  afraid  of  it  alive  and  when  they  will  be 
dead.  Women  set  such  a  store  on  what  they  call 
their  virtue,  and  men  tend  so  much  to  the  opinion 
of  others,  that  they  don't  get  anywhere." 

"  Don't  you  set  anything  on  your — your  virtue  ?" 

"I'd  make  it  serve  me;  I  wouldn't  be  a  silly  slave 
to  it  all  my  life.  If  I  can  get  things  with  it,  that's 
what  I'm  going  to  do." 

Gordon  Makimmon  found  these  potent  words 
from  such  a  pleasing  woman  as  Meta  Beggs.  Any 
philosophy  underlying  them,  any  ruthless  strength, 
escaped  him  entirely.  They  appealed  solely  to  him 
as  "  gay,"  highly  suggestive.  They  stirred  his 
blood  into  warm,  heady  tides  of  feeling.  He  moved 
over  the  smooth  covering  of  pine  needles,  closer 
to  her.  But  with  an  expression  of  petulance  she 
rose. 

"  I  suppose  we  must  look  for  Buckley,"  she  ob- 
served. Gordon  had  completely  forgotten  Buckley 
Simmons's  presence  at  the  camp  meeting.  The 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  169 

school-teacher,  swaying  slimly,  led  the  way  over  the 
path  to  the  plateau. 

They  saw  Buckley  Simmons  at  once:  he  was 
talking  in  an  excited,  angry  manner  to  a  small  group 
of  men.  A  gesture  was  made  toward  Gordon  and 
his  companion ;  Buckley  turned,  and  his  face  flushed 
darkly.  Gordon  stood  still;  Meta  Beggs  fell 
behind  as  Buckley  made  his  way  toward  them. 
He  spoke  loudly  when  he  was  still  an  appreciable 
distance  away: 

'  You  were  mighty  considerate  about  my  dusty 
throat,"  he  began  with  heavy  sarcasm;  "  I  ought  to 
have  seen  at  the  time  that  you  had  it  made  up 
between  you.  This  is  the  second  time  that  you 
have  broken  in  on  me,  Makimmon.  I'm  not  a  boy 
any  longer.  You  can't  tread  on  me.  It's  going  to 
stop  .  .  .  now." 

'  There's  nothing  for  you  to  get  excited  about, 
Buck.  Miss  Beggs  and  I  took  a  little  stroll  while 
you  were  away." 

"  A  '  little  stroll.'  '  Buckley  produced  a  heavy 
gold  watch,  the  highly  chased  cover  of  which  he 
snapped  back.  "  Over  half  an  hour,"  he  pro- 
claimed; "  you  stayed  too  long  this  time." 

Gordon  was  aware  of  a  form  at  his  back.  He 
turned,  and  saw  Tol'able. 

"  What's  the  trouble,  Gord  ?"  the  latter  asked. 
Two  or  three  others  were  compactly  grouped  behind 
him. 

'  Why,  Buckley's  hot  because  I  walked  with  Miss 
Beggs  while  he  took  a  drink." 

The  men  about  Buckley  Simmons  closed  up. 
"  Don't  let  Gordon  crowd  you  down,"  they  advised 
their  principal;  "  put  it  up  against  him." 


170  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

"  Haven't  you  got  enough  at  home,"  Buckley 
demanded,  "  without  playing  around  here  ?" 

Anger  swiftly  rose  to  Gordon  Makimmon's  head. 
His  hand  fell  and  remained  close  by  his  side. 

"  Keep  your  tongue  off  my  home,"  he  commanded 
harshly,  "  or  you  will  get  more  than  a  horsewhip- 
ping."* 

"  By  God !'  Buckley  articulated.  His  face 
changed  from  dark  to  pale,  his  mouth  opened,  his 
eyes  were  staring.  He  fumbled  desperately  in  his 
pocket.  Gordon's  hand  closed  smoothly,  instantly, 
about  the  handle  of  his  revolver.  But,  before  he 
could  level  it,  an  arm  shot  out  from  behind  him, 
and  a  stone  the  size  of  two  fists  sped  like  a  bullet, 
striking  Buckley  Simmons  where  his  hair  and  fore- 
head joined.  Gordon,  in  a  species  of  shocked 
curiosity  and  surprise,  clearly  saw  the  stone  hit  the 
other.  There  was  a  sound  like  that  made  by  a  heel 
breaking  a  scum  of  ice  on  a  frozen  road. 

Buckley  said,  "  Ah !"  half  turned,  and  dropped 
like  a  piece  of  carpet. 

The  belligerent  attitude  instantly  evaporated 
from  the  group  behind  the  stricken  man.  "  Gra- 
cious ! ' '  some  one  muttered  foolishly.  They  all  j  oined 
in  a  stooping  circle  about  the  prostrate  figure. 
It  was  seen  immediately  that  the  skull  was  broken 
— a  white  splinter  of  bone  stood  up  from  a  matted 
surface  of  blood  and  hair  and  dirt.  Buckley's  eye- 
lids winked  continuously  and  with  great  rapidity. 

A  mingled  concern  and  deep  relief  swept  through 
Gordon  Makimmon.  He  knew  that,  had  the  stone 
not  been  thrown,  he  should  have  killed  Buckley  Sim- 
mons. He  wondered  if  Tol'able  had  done  him  that 
act  of  loyalty.  It  had,  probably,  fatally  wounded 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  171 

its  object.  He  turned  with  a  swift,  silent  look  of 
inquiry  to  Tol'able.  The  other,  unmoved,  dexter- 
ously shifted  a  mouthful  of  tobacco.  "  Whoever 
did  that,"  he  observed,  "  could  sure  throw  a  rock." 
A  crowd  gathered  swiftly,  cautious  and  murmur- 
ing. Simmons  was  lifted  on  a  horse  blanket  to  the 
flooring  by  the  counter.  There  was  an  outcry  for  a 
doctor,  but  none  was  present,  and  it  was  agreed 
that  the  wounded  man  must  be  hurried  in  to 
Greenstream.  "  He  won't  get  there  alive,"  it  was 
freely  predicted;  "  the  top  of  his  head  is  crumbled 
right  off." 


X 

GOKDON  found  Meta  Beggs  on  the  outskirt  of  the 
throng;  she  was  pale,  but  otherwise  unshaken.  "  I 
was  sure  you  were  going  to  shoot  Buckley,"  she  told 
him. 

"  So  was  I,"  he  returned  grimly. 

'  Will  he  die  ?" 

"  It  looks  bad — his  head's  cracked.  You  didn't 
see  anybody  throw  that  stone  !"  His  voice  had 
more  the  accent  of  a  command  than  an  inquiry. 

"  I  really  didn't;  the  men  were  standing  so  closely 
.  .  .  nobody  saw." 

'  That's  good.  You'll  drive  home  with  me,  for 
certain." 

"I'm  glad  you  didn't  kill  him,"  she  confided  to 
Gordon  in  the  buggy.  She  was  sitting  very  close  to 
him.  "  It  would  have — upset  things." 

"  I  don't  believe  you  were  a  scrap  frightened,"  he 
asserted  admiringly. 

"  I  wasn't.  I  thought  how  foolish  you  would  be 
to  spoil  everything  for  yourself." 

"  I  would  have  gone  into  the  mountains,"  he  ex- 
plained; "  a  hundred  men  would  have  kept  the  law 
off  me.  I  was  a  year  and  a  half  there,  when — 
when  I  was  younger,"  he  ended  lamely. 

"  I  like  that,"  she  replied;  "  I  understand  it. 
I've  wanted  to  murder;  but  it  would  have  been  silly. 

172 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  173 

I  would  have  had  to  pay  too  dearly  for  a  passing 
rage."  There  was  a  menace  in  her  even  voice,  a 
cold  echo  like  that  from  a  closed,  empty  room,  that 
oppressed  Gordon  unpleasantly. 

"  I  guess  you're  not  as  dangerous  as  that,"  he  re- 
sponded, more  lightly.  He  wondered,  unable  to 
decide,  if  she  were  consciously  pressing  her  body 
against  him,  or  if  it  were  merely  the  jolting  of  the 
buggy.  They  were  passing  through  the  valley  that 
led  into  Greenstream ;  the  sun  was  lowering  behind 
them,  the  shadows  creeping  out.  They  dropped 
from  the  rough,  minor  forms  into  the  bigger  sweep 
—it  was  like  a  great  green  bed  half  filled  with  a 
gold  flood.  Gordon's  horse  walked,  and,  in  their 
slow  progress,the  stream  of  light  flowing  between  the 
ranges  changed  to  a  stream  of  shadow.  A  miracu- 
lous pink  rose  opened  in  the  east  and  scattered  its 
glowing  petals  across  the  sky.  The  buggy  wound, 
like  an  infinitesimal  toy,  over  the  darkening  road. 

He  passed  his  dwelling,  a  long,  irregular  roof 
against  the  veiled  surface  of  the  stream;  a  light 
shone  from  the  kitchen  window.  The  streets  of  the 
village,  folded  in  warm  dusk,  were  empty;  the  white 
columns  of  the  Courthouse  glimmered  behind  the 
shafts  of  the  trees  on  the  lawn.  Supper  was  in 
progress  at  Peterman's  hotel;  as  Gordon  and  Meta 
Beggs  left  the  buggy  they  heard  the  rattle  of  dishes 
within.  She  walked  a  few  steps,  then  stopped,  was 
about  to  speak,  but  she  saw  that  Gordon  had 
followed  her,  and  turned  and  led  the  way  to  the 
steps  giving  to  the  gallery  above. 

Gordon  Makimmon  followed  her  without  reason, 
without  plan,  almost  subconsciously.  He  walked 
close  behind  her  to  where  she  opened  the  door  to 


174  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

her  room:  it  was  grey  within,  a  dim  curtain  swelled 
faintly  with  an  unfelt  air. 

"  Black,"  he  repeated  stupidly,  "  size  eight  and  a 
half." 

She  stepped  into  the  room  and  faced  him;  her 
lips  were  parted  over  a  glimmer  of  teeth.  He  took 
her  roughly  in  his  arms,  and  she  turned  up  her  face. 

"  For  the  stockings,"  she  said,  as  he  kissed  her. 

He  kissed  her  again,  and  she  murmured,  faintly, 
"  Two  pairs." 

It  enraged  him  that  she  was  so  collected ;  her  body, 
pressed  against  him  from  knee  to  shoulder,  was 
without  a  tremor,  her  breast  was  tranquil.  She 
might  have  been,  from  her  unstudied  total  detach- 
ment, a  fine,  flexible  statue  in  his  straining  embrace, 
under  his  eager  lips.  Suddenly,  with  no  apparent 
effort,  she  released  herself. 

She  removed  the  hat  with  the  blue  feather,  calmly 
laid  it  on  the  indistinct  bed,  and  moved  to  the 
mirror  of  a  small  bureau,  where  her  hands  glided 
over  her  smooth  hair. 

"  Men  are  so — elementary,"  she  observed,  "  and 
all  alike.  I  wish  I  could  feel  what  you  do,"  she 
turned  to  Gordon — "  just  once." 

''  What  are  you  made  of  ?"  he  demanded  tensely; 
"stone?" 

"  I  often  wonder." 

She  crossed  the  room  to  the  gallery,  where  she 
glanced  swiftly  about.  "  You  must  leave,  and  I'll 
go  down  to  supper.  Next  Sunday  I  am  going  to 
walk  ...  in  the  morning." 

"  If  you  go  out  by  the  priest's,"  he  suggested, 
"  and  turn  to  the  right,  you  will  find  a  pretty 
stream;  farther  down  there's  an  old  mill." 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  175 

She  drew  back,  waiting  for  him  to  descend  to  the 
ground  below. 

Simmons's  clerk  was  standing  on  the  platform 
before  the  store,  and  Gordon  drew  up.  "  How's 
Buckley  ?"  he  inquired. 

"  Bad/'  the  other  answered  laconically.  '  They 
sent  to  Stenton  for  help.  His  head's  cracked.  It's 
funny,"  he  commented,  "  with  a  hundred  people 
around,  nobody  saw  that  stone  thrown  't  all." 

"  It  don't  do  sometimes  to  see  this  and  that," 
Gordon  explained,  tightening  the  reins. 

He  unhitched  the  horse  in  his  shed-like  stable 
by  the  aid  of  a  hand  lantern.  He  was  reluctant  to 
go  into  the  house,  and  he  prolonged  the  unbuckling 
of  the  familiar  straps,  the  measuring  of  feed,  beyond 
all  necessity.  Outside,  he  thought  he  heard  General 
Jackson  by  the  stream,  and  he  stood  whistling 
softly,  but  only  the  first  notes  of  the  whippoorwills 
responded.  '  The  night's  just  come  down  all  at 
once,"  he  said.  Finally,  with  a  rigid  assumption 
of  indifference  covering  an  uneasy  heart,  he  went  in. 

Lettice  was  asleep  by  the  lamp  in  the  sitting  room. 
She  looked  younger  than  ever,  but  there  were 
shadows  under  her  eyes,  her  mouth  was  a  little 
drawn  as  if  by  the  memory  of  pain.  A  shawl,  he 
saw,  had  slipped  from  her  shoulders,  and  he  walked 
clumsily  on  the  tips  of  his  shoes  and  rearranged  it. 
Then  he  sat  down  and  waited  for  her  to  wake. 

The  flame  of  the  lamp  was  like  a  section  of  an 
orange;  it  cast  a  warm,  low  radiance  through  the 
room.  His  gaze  rested  on  the  photograph  of 
Lettice's  mother  in  her  coffin.  He  imagined  that 
paper  effigy  of  inanimate  clay  moved,  turned  its  dull 
head  to  regard  him.  "  I'm  getting  old,"  he  told 


176  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

himself  contemptuously,  repressing  an  involuntary 
start  of  surprise.  His  heart  rested  like  a  lump  of 
lead  in  his  breast;  it  oppressed  him  so  that  his 
breathing  grew  laboured.  His  mind  returned  to 
Meta  Beggs:  coldness  like  hers  was  not  natural,  it 
was  not  right.  He  thought  again,  as  men  have 
vainly  of  such  women  since  the  dawning  of  con- 
sciousness, that  it  would  be  stirring  to  fire  her  in- 
difference, to  ignite  a  passion  in  response  to  his  own 
desire.  The  memory  of  her  slender,  full  body,  her 
cool  lips,  tormented  him. 

Lettice  woke  abruptly. 

"  Gordon  !"  she  cried,  in  an  odd,  muffled  voice; 
"  you're  always  late ;  your  supper  is  always  spoiled/' 

"  I  had  my  supper,"  he  hurriedly  fabricated,  "  at 
Peterman's.  It's  nice  in  here,  Lettice,  with  you  and 
all  the  things  around.  It  has  a  comfortable  look. 
You're  right  pretty,  Lettice,  too." 

The  unexpected  compliment  brought  a  flush  to  her 
cheeks.  '  I'm  not  pretty  now,"  she  replied;  "  I'm 
all  pulled  out."  General  Jackson  ambled  into  the 
room,  sat  between  them.  "  Let's  hear  the  General 
sing,"  she  proposed. 

Gordon  wound  the  phonograph,  and  the  distant 
metallic  voice  repeated  the  undeniable  fact  that  Rip 
Van  Winkle  had  been  unaware  of  the  select  pleasures 
of  Coney  Island.  The  dog  whimpered,  then  raised 
his  head  in  a  despairing  bay. 

A  time  might  come  in  a  man's  life,  Gordon 
Makimmon  realized,  when  this  peaceful  interior 
would  spell  complete  happiness.  / 


XI 

ON  Sunday  he  strolled  soon  after  breakfast  in 
the  direction  of  the  priest's.  Merlier  was  standing 
at  the  door  to  his  house.  Gordon  noted  that  the 
other  was  growing  heavier:  folds  dropped  from 
the  corners  of  his  shaven  lips,  his  eyes  had  retreated 
in  fatty  pouches.  His  gaze  was  still  searchingly 
keen,  but  the  priest  was  wearing  out.  Gordon 
stopped  in  response  to  his  silent  nod. 

'  You  ought  to  let  up  on  yourself  a  little,"  he 
advised. 

'  Why  ?"  the  other  briefly  queried. 
'  Why  V  so's  you  will  last  longer/' 

To  this  the  priest  made  no  reply.  A  short, 
awkward  silence  followed,  during  which  Gordon 
grew  restive.  "  If  I  looked  so  glum  about  Green- 
stream,"  he  continued,  "  I'd  move  out."  It  was  as 
though  he  had  not  spoken.  "  I'd  go  back  where  I 
came  from,"  he  persisted  sharply.  The  priest's  lips 
moved,  formed  words : 

'  Che  discese  da  Fiesole  ab  antico.' ' 

His  imperturbable  manner  offered  Gordon  not  the 
slightest  opening;  and  he  continued  uncomfortably 
on  his  way.  There  was  a  quality  about  that  thick, 
black-clad  figure  which  cast  a  shadow  over  the 
cloudless  day,  it  blunted  the  anticipated  pleasure'of 
his  meeting  with  Meta  Beggs.  There  was  about 

177  12 


178  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

Merlier  a  smell  of  death  like  the  smell  of  sooty 
smoke. 

The  stream  lay  shining  along  its  wooded  course; 
the  range  greenly  aflame  with  new  foliage  rose  into 
radiant  space;  flickers  hammered  on  resonant  dead 
wood.  Gordon  banished  the  sombre  memory  of  the 
priest.  He  was  conscious  of  a  sudden  excitement, 
a  keenness  of  response  to  living,  like  a  renewal  of 
youth.  He  wished  that  Meta  Beggs  would  appear; 
his  direction  to  her  had  been  vague ;  she  might  easily 
go  astray  and  miss  him.  But  he  saw  her,  after 
what  seemed  an  interminable  period,  leaving  the 
road  and  crossing  the  strip  of  sod  that  bordered  the 
stream.  She  had  on  a  white  dress  that  clung  to  her 
figure,  and  a  broad,  flapping  straw  hat  wound  with 
white.  She  saw  him  and  waved.  The  brush  rose 
thickly  along  the  water,  but  there  was  a  footway  at 
its  edge,  with  occasional  broader  reaches  of  rough 
sod.  In  one  of  the  latter  she  stooped,  made  a  swift 
movement  with  the  hem  of  her  skirt. 

"  See,"  she  smiled;  "  I  said  you  would  like  me  in 
them/' 

He  attempted  to  catch  her  in  his  arms,  but  she 
eluded  him.  "  Please,"  she  protested  coolly, "  don't 
be  tiresome.  .  .  .  We  must  talk/' 

He  followed  her  by  the  devious  edge  of  the  stream 
to  the  ruined  mill.  He  could  see  the  blurring  im- 
press of  the  black  silk  stockings  through  the  web  of 
her  dress ;  the  dress  had  shrunk  from  repeated  wash- 
ing, and  drew  tightly  across  her  shoulders.  She 
walked  lightly  and  well,  and  sat  with  a  graceful 
sweep  on  a  fallen,  mouldering  beam.  Beyond  them 
the  broad  expanse  of  the  mill  pond  was  paved  with 
still  shadows ;  a  dust  of  minute  insects  swept  above 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  179 

the  clouded  surface.  The  water  ran  slowly  over  the 
dam,  everywhere  cushioned  with  deep  moss,  and  fell 
with  an  eternal  splatter  on  the  rocks  below. 

Gordon  rolled  a  cigarette  from  the  muslin  bag  of 
Green  Goose.  '  Why  do  you  still  smoke  that 
grass  ?"  she  demanded  curiously.  '  You  could  get 
the  best  cigars  from  Cuba/'  He  explained,  and  she 
regarded  him  impatiently.  ' '  Can't  you  realize  what 
possibilities  you  have  !" 

"  I  might,  with  assistance." 

"  If  you  once  saw  the  world  !  I've  been  reading 
about  Paris,  the  avenues  and  cafes  and  theatres. 
Why,  in  the  cafes  there  they  drink  only  champagne 
and  dance  all  night.  The  women  come  with  their 
lovers  in  little  closed  carriages,  and  go  back  to  little 
closed  rooms  hung  in  brocade.  They  never  wear 
anything  but  evening  clothes,  for  they  are  never  out 
but  at  night — satin  gowns  with  trains  and  bare 
shoulders/' 

He  endeavoured  to  picture  himself  in  such  a  city, 
amid  such  a  life,  with  Meta  Beggs.  He  felt  that  she 
would  be  entirely  in  place  in  the  little  carriages, 
drinking  champagne.  '*  That's  where  they  eat 
frogs,"  he  remarked  inanely.  In  the  tensity  of  her 
feeling,  the  bitterness  of  her  longing,  her  envy,  she 
cursed  him  for  a  dull  fool.  Then,  recovering  her 
composure  with  a  struggle: 

'  I  would  make  a  man  drunk  with  pleasure  in  a 
place  like  that.  He  would  be  proud  of  me,  and  all 
the  other  men  would  hate  him;  they  would  all  want 
me." 

"  Some  would  come  pretty  near  getting  you,  too," 
he  replied  with  a  flash  of  penetration;  "  those  with 
the  fastest  horses  or  longest  pockets." 


180  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

"  I  would  be  true  to  whoever  took  me  there/'  she 
declared;  "  out  of  gratitude." 

He  drew  a  deep  breath.  '  What  would  you  say," 
he  inquired,  leaning  toward  her,  "  to  a  trip  to — to 
Richmond  ?  We  could  be  gone  the  best  part  of  a 
week." 

She  laughed  scornfully.  "  Do  you  think  I  am  as 
cheap  as  that — to  be  bought  over  Sunday  ?"  She 
rose  and  stood  before  him,  sharply  outlined  against 
the  foliage,  the  water,  the  momentary  flittering 
insects,  taunting,  provocative,  sensual. 

"  Five  years  ago,"  he  told  her,  "  if  you  had  tried 
this  foolery,  I  would  have  choked  you,  and  thrown 
what  was  left  in  the  dam." 

"  And  now "  she  jeered  fearlessly. 

"  It's  different,"  he  admitted  moodily. 

It  was.  Somewhere  the  lash  had  been  lost  from 
the  whip  of  his  desire.  He  was  still  eager, 
tormented  by  the  wish  to  feel  her  disdainful  mouth 
against  his.  The  recrudescence  of  spring  burned 
in  his  veins;  but,  at  the  same  time,  there  was  anew 
reluctance  upon  his  flesh.  The  inanimate,  obese 
mask  of  the  priest,  Lettice's  sleeping  countenance 
faintly  stamped  with  pain,  hovered  in  his  conscious- 
ness. "  It's  different,"  he  repeated. 

"  You  are  losing  your  hold  on  pleasure,"  she 
observed,  critically  aloof. 

He  leaned  forward  and  grasped  her  wrist  and, 
with  a  slight  motion,  forced  her  upon  her  knees. 
"  If  you  are  pleasure,  I'm  not,"  he  challenged. 

'  You  are  hurting  my  arm,"  she  said  coldly.  His 
grip  tightened,  and  a  small  grimace  crossed  her  lips. 
"  Let  go,"  she  demanded;  and  then  a  swift  passion 
shrilled  her  voice.  "  Let  go,  you  are  crushing  my 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  181 

wrist.  Damn  you  to  hell !  if  you  spoil  my  wrist 
111  kiU  you." 

For  a  moment,  as  he  held  her,  she  reminded 

Gordon  of  a  venomous  snake ;  he  had  never  seen  such 

a  lithe,  wicked  hatred  in  any  other  human  being. 

'  You    are    a    gentle    object,"   he    satirized   her, 

loosening  his  hold. 

She  rose  slowly  and  stood  fingering  her  wrist. 
The  emotion  died  from  her  countenance.  '  You 
see,"  she  explained,  "  my  body  is  all  I  have  to  take 
me  out  of  this  " — she  motioned  to  the  slumbering 
water,  the  towering  range — "  and  I  can't  afford  to 
have  it  spoiled.  You  wouldn't  like  me  if  I  were 
lame  or  crooked.  Men  don't.  The  religious 
squashes  can  say  all  they  like  about  the  soul,  but  a 
woman's  body  is  the  only  really  important  thing 
to  her.  No  one  bothers  about  your  soul,  but  they 
judge  your  figure  across  the  street." 

'  Yours  hasn't  done  you  much  good." 

"  It  will,"  she  returned  sombrely,  "  it  must — real 
lace  and  wine  and  ease."  She  came  very  close  to 
him;  he  could  feel  the  faint  jarring  of  her  heart,  the 
moisture  of  her  breath.  "  And  you  could  get  them 
for  me.  I  would  make  you  mad  with  sensation." 

He  kissed  her  again  and  again,  crushing  her  to 
him.  She  abandoned  herself  to  his  arms,  but  she 
was  as  untouched,  as  impersonal,  as  a  stuffed  woman 
of  cool  satin.  In  the  end  he  voluntarily  released 
her. 

"  You  wouldn't  take  fire  from  a  pine  knot,"  he 
said  unsteadily. 

Her  deft  hands  rearranged  her  hat.  "  Some  day 
a  man  will  murder  me,"  she  replied  in  level  tones; 
"  perhaps  I'll  get  a  thrill  from  that."  Her  voice 


182  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

grew  as  cutting  as  a  surgeon's  polished  knife. 
;'  Please  don't  think  I'm  the  kind  of  woman  men 
take  out  in  the  woods  and  kiss.  You  may  have  dis- 
covered that  I  don't  like  kissing.  I'm  going  to  be 
honester  still — last  year,  when  you  were  mending 
the  minister's  ice  house,  and  hadn't  a  dollar,  I  wasn't 
the  smallest  bit  interested  in  you;  and  this  year  I 
am.  Not  on  account  of  the  money  itself,"  she  was 
careful  to  add,  "  but  because  of  you  and  the  money 
together.  Don't  you  see — it  changed  you;  it's 
perfectly  right  that  it  should,  and  that  I  should 
recognize  it." 

"  That  sounds  fair  enough,"  he  agreed.  "  Now 
the  question  is,  what  are  we  going  to  do  together, 
you  and  me  and  the  money  ?" 

"  Would  you  do  what  I  wanted  ?"  she  asked  at  his 
shoulder. 

"  Would  you  ?" 

"  Yes." 

'  We  might  try  Kichmond." 

"  Don't  fool  yourself,"  she  returned  hardily;  "  I 
know  all  about  those  trial  trips.  Any  man  I  go  with 
has  got  to  go  far:  I  don't  intend  to  be  left  at  some 
poky  little  way  station  with  everything  gone  and 
nothing  accomplished." 

"  But,"  he  objected,  "  a  man  who  went  with  you 
could  never  come  back." 

"  Back  to  this  wilderness,"  she  scoffed;  "  any  one 
should  thank  God  for  being  taken  out  of  it." 

"  I've  always  lived  here,  my  father  too,  and  his 
before  him;  and  back  of  that  we  came  from 
mountains.  We're  mountain  blood;  I  don't  know 
if  we  could  get  used  to  anything  else,  live  down 
yonder." 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  183 

"  I'd  civilize  you,"  she  promised  him. 

"  Perhaps "  he  assented  slowly. 

Suddenly  from  beyond  the  ruin  came  the  stir 
of  a  horse  moving  in  harness.  The  sound  stopped 
and  the  voices  of  men  grew  audible.  Instinctively 
Gordon  and  Meta  Beggs  drew  behind  a  standing 
fragment  of  wall.  Gordon  could  see,  through  the 
displaced,  rotting  boards,  a  buggy  and  two  men 
standing  at  the  side  of  the  road.  One,  he  recog- 
nized, was  Valentine  Simmons;  he  easily  made  out 
the  small,  alert  figure.  The  other,  with  his  back  to 
the  mill,  held  outspread  a  sheet  of  paper.  There 
was  something  familiar  about  the  carriage  of  the 
head,  a  glimpse  of  beard,  a  cigar  from  which  were 
expelled  copious  volumes  of  smoke.  Gordon  vainly 
racked  his  memory  for  a  clue  to  the  second,  elusive 
personality.  He  heard  Simmons  say: 

"  .  .  .  by  the  South  Fork  entrance  .  .  .  through 
the  valley." 

The  stranger  partially  turned,  and  Gordon  in- 
stantly recalled  where  he  had  seen  him  before: 
the  man  he  had  driven  from  Stenton  with  the 
surprising  foreknowledge  of  the  County,  who  had 
been  met  by  Pompey  Hollidew.  He  replied  to 
Simmons,  "  Exactly  .  .  .  timber  sidings  at  the 
principal  depots." 

They  were,  evidently,  discussing  a  projected  road. 
Gordon  subconsciously  exclaimed,  half  aloud, 
"  Railroad  !"  A  swift  illumination  bathed  in  com- 
plete comprehension  the  whole  affair— the  connec- 
tion of  Simmons,  old  Pompey's  options,  and  the 
stranger.  This  railroad,  the  coming  of  which 
would  increase  enormously  the  timber  values  of 
Greenstream  County,  had  been  the  covert  reason 


184  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

for  Simmons' s  desire  to  purchase  the  options  held  by 
the  Hollidew  estate;  it  had  been,  during  Pompey 
Hollidew's  life,  the  reason  for  the  acquisition  of 
such  extended  timber  interests.  Hollidew,  Simmons 
and  Company  had  joined  in  a  conspiracy  to  purchase 
them  throughout  the  county  at  a  nominal  sum  and 
reap  the  benefits  of  the  large  enhancement.  The 
death  of  Hollidew  had  interrupted  that  satis- 
factory scheme;  now  Valentine  Simmons  had  con- 
ceived the  plan  of  gathering  all  the  profit  to  himself. 
And,  Gordon  admitted,  he  had  nearly  succeeded 
.  .  .  nearly.  A  slow  smile  crossed  Gordon  Makim- 
mon's  features  as  he  realized  what  a  pleasant  con- 
versation he  should  have  with  Simmons  at  the 
latter's  expense.  He  had  never  conceived  the 
possibility  of  getting  the  astute  storekeeper  into 
such  a  satisfactory  retaliatory  position.  He  would 
extract  the  last  penny  of  profit  and  enjoyment  from 
the  other's  surprise. 

The  men  beyond  re-entered  the  buggy  and  drove 
toward  the  village. 

"What  is  it?"  Meta  Beggs  asked;  "you  look 
pleased." 

"  Oh,  I  fell  on  a  little  scheme,"  he  replied 
evasively ;"  a  trifle  .  .  .  worth  a  hundred  thousand 
or  more  to  me." 

Her  eyes  widened  with  avidity.  ' '  I  didn't  know  the 
whole  God-forsaken  place  was  worth  a  thousand," 
she  remarked.  "  A  hundred  thousand  !"  the  mere 
repetition  of  that  sum  brought  a  new  shine  into 
her  gaze,  instinctively  drew  her  closer  to  Gordon's 
side. 

"  Just  that  alone  would  be  enough "  she  said, 

and  paused. 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  185 

He  ignored  this  opening  in  the  anticipated  pleasure 
of  his  coming  interview  with  Valentine  Simmons. 

A  palpable  annoyance  took  possession  of  her  at 
Gordon's  absorption.  "  It  must  be  near  dinner  at 
Peterman's,"  she  remarked;  "  on  Sunday  you've 
got  to  be  on  time." 

In  response  to  her  suggestion  he  turned  toward 
the  road.  They  walked  back  silently  until  they 
were  opposite  the  priest's.  "I'd  better  go  on  alone," 
she  decided.  Her  hands  clung  to  his  shoulders  and 
she  sought  his  lips.  "  Soon  again,"  she  murmured. 
"  Don't  desert  me;  I  am  entirely  alone  except  for 
you." 

She  left  him  and  swiftly  crossed  the  green  to  the 
road. 


XII 

GORDON  carefully  explained  the  entire  circum- 
stance of  the  timber  to  Lettice.  "  I  just  happened 
to  be  by  the  stream,"  he  continued,  "  and  overheard 
them.  Your  father  and  Simmons  evidently  had 
arranged  the  thing,  and  Simmons  was  going  to  crowd 
you  out  of  all  the  gain." 

'  You  see  to  it,"  she  returned  listlessly ;  "  you  have 
my  name  on  that  paper,  the  power  of  something  or 
other."  She  was  seated  on  the  porch  of  their  dwell- 
ing. A  low-drifting  mass  of  formless  grey  cloud 
rilled  the  narrow  opening  of  the  ranges,  drooping 
in  nebulous  veils  of  suspended  moisture  down  to  the 
vivid  green  of  the  valley.  The  mountains  seemed 
to  dissolve  into  the  nothingness  above;  the  stream 
was  unusually  noisy. 

"  I  might  see  him  this  evening,"  he  observed; 
"  and  I  could  find  out  how  Buck  was  resting." 
'  However  did  he  come  to  get  hurt  ?" 

"  I  never  knew  rightly;  there  we  were  all 
standing  with  Buckley  a-talking,  when  the  stone 
flew  out  of  the  crowd  and  hit  him  on  the  head. 
Nobody  saw  who  did  it." 

"  I  wish  you  hadn't  been  there,  Gordon.  You 
always  seem  to  be  around,  to  get  talked  about,  when 
anything  happens." 

He  saw  that  she  was  irritable,  in  a  mood  for  com- 

186 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  187 

plaint,  and  he  rose.  "  You  mean  Mrs.  Caley  talks 
wherever  I  am,"  he  corrected.  He  left  the  porch 
and  walked  over  the  road  to  the  village.  The  store, 
he  knew,  would  be  closed;  but  Valentine  Simmons, 
an  indefatigable  church  worker,  almost  invariably 
after  the  service  pleasantly  passed  the  remainder  of 
Sunday  in  the  contemplation  and  balancing  of  his 
long  and  satisfactory  accounts  and  assets. 

He  was,  as  Gordon  had  anticipated,  in  the 
enclosed  office,  bent  over  his  ledgers.  The  door  to 
the  store  was  unlocked.  Simmons  rose  and  briefly 
acknowledged  Gordon's  presence. 

"  I  was  sorry  Buckley  got  hurt,"  the  latter  opened ; 
"  it  wasn't  any  direct  fault  of  mine.  We  were 
having  words.  I  don't  deny  but  that  it  might  have 
gone  farther  with  us,  but  some  one  else  stepped  in." 

"  So  I  was  informed.  Buckley  will  probably  live 
.  .  .  that  is  all  the  Stenton  doctor  will  say ;  a  piece 
of  his  skull  has  been  removed.  I  am  not  prepared 
to  discuss  it  right  now  .  .  .  painful  to  me." 

"  Certainly.  But  I  didn't  come  to  discuss  that. 
I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  the  timber — those 
options  of  Lettice's." 

"  She  doesn't  agree  to  the  deal  ?"  Simmons 
queried  sharply. 

'  Whatever  I  say  is  good  enough  for  Lettice," 
Gordon  replied. 

An  expression  of  relief  settled  over  the  other. 
"  The  papers  will  be  ready  this  week,"  he  said.  "  I 
have  taken  all  that,  and  some  expense,  off  you. 
You  will  make  a  nice  thing  out  of  it." 

"  I  will,"  Gordon  assented  heartily.  "  And  that 
reminds  me — I  saw  an  old  acquaintance  of  Pompey 
Hollidew's  in  Greenstream  to-day.  I  don't  know 


188  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

his  name ;  I  drove  him  up  in  the  stage,  and  Pompey 
greeted  him  like  a  long-lost  dollar." 

A  veiled,  alert  curiosity  was  plain  on  Simmons 's 
smooth  pinkish  countenance. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  know  him  too  ? — a  man  with 
a  beard,  a  great  hand  for  maps  and  cigars." 

'  Well  ?"  Valentine  Simmons  temporized. 

"  Could  he  have  anything  to  do  with  those  timber 
options  of  the  old  man's,  with  your  offer  for  them  ?" 

'  Well  ?"  Simmons  repeated.  His  face  was  now 
absolutely  blank;  he  sat  turned  from  his  ledgers, 
facing  Gordon,  without  a  tremor. 

"It's  no  use,  Simmons,"  Gordon  Mackimmon 
admitted;  "  I  was  out  by  the  old  mill  this  morning. 
I  saw  you  both,  heard  something  that  was  said. 
That  railroad  will  do  a  lot  for  values  around  here, 
but  mostly  for  timber." 

Instantly,  and  with  no  wasted  regrets  over  lost 
opportunities,  Simmons  changed  his  tactics  to  meet 
existing  conditions.  "  Your  wife's  estate  controls 
about  three  thousand  acres  of  timber,"  he  pro- 
nounced. "  What  will  you  take  for  them  ?" 

"  How  much  do  you  control  ?"  Gordon  asked. 

"  About  twenty-five  hundred  at  present." 

Gordon  paused;  then,  "  Lettice  will  take  thirty 
dollars  an  acre." 

'  Why  !"  the  other  protested,  "  Pompey  bought 
them  for  little  or  nothing.  You're  after  over  two 
hundred  per  cent,  increase." 

'  What  do  you  figure  to  get  out  of  yours  ?" 

"  That  doesn't  concern  us  now.  I've  had  to  put 
this  through — a  tremendous  thing  for  Greenstream, 
a  lasting  benefit — entirely  by  myself.  I  will  have 
to  guarantee  a  wicked  profit  outside;  I  stand  alone 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  189 

to  lose  a  big  sum.  I'll  give  you  ten  dollars  for  the 
options." 

Gordon  rose.  "I'll  see  the  railroad  people  my- 
self," he  observed,  "  and  find  out  what  I  can  do 
there." 

"  Hold  on."  Simmons  waved  him  back  to  his 
chair.  "  If  there's  too  much  talk,  the  thing  will  get 
out.  You  know  these  thick  skulls  around  here — at 
the  whisper  of  transportation  you  couldn't  cut  a 
sapling  with  a  gold  axe.  It  took  managing  to 
interest  the  Tennessee  and  Northern;  they  are  going 
through  to  Buffalo;  a  Greenstream  branch  is  only 
a  side  issue  to  them."  He  paused,  thinking. 

There's  no  good,"  he  resumed,  "  in  you  and  me 
getting  into  each  other.  The  best  thing  we  can 
do  is  to  control  all  the  good  stuff,  agree  on  a  price, 
and  divide  the  take." 

Gordon  carefully  considered  this  new  proposal. 
It  seemed  to  him  palpably  fair.  "  All  the  papers 
would  have  to  be  made  together,"  he  added ;  "  what's 
for  one's  for  the  other." 

Now  that  the  deal  was  fully  exposed,  Valentine 
Simmons  was  impatient  of  small  precautions. 

Can't  you  see  how  the  plan  lays  ?"  he  demanded 
irritably.  "We'll  draw  up  a  partnership.  Don't 
get  full  and  talk,"  he  added  discontentedly.  It 
was  evident  that  he  keenly  resented  the  absence  of 
Pompey  Hollidew  from  the  transaction. 

"  A  thing  like  this,"  he  informed  the  other,  "  ain't 
put  through  in  a  week.  It  will  be  two  or  three  years 
yet  before  the  company  will  be  ready  for  construc- 
tion." 

Minor  details  were  rehearsed,  concluded.  Two 
weeks  later  Gordon  signed  an  agreement  of  part- 


190  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

nership  with  Valentine  Simmons  to  purchase  collec- 
tively such  timber  options  as  were  deemed  desirable, 
and  to  merchandise  their  interests  at  a  uniform 
price  to  the  railroad  company  concerned. 


XIII 

WHEN  Gordon  returned  to  his  dwelling  he  found 
Sim  Caley  and  his  sister's  husband  taking  the  horse 
from  the  shafts  of  a  dusty  two-seated  carriage. 
Rutherford  Berry  was  a  slightly-built  man  with 
high,  narrow  shoulders  and  a  smooth  pasty-white 
face.  He  was  clerk  in  a  store  at  the  farther  end  of 
Greenstream  valley,  and  had  flat,  fragile  wrists 
and  a  constant,  irritating  cough. 

"  H'y,  Gord  !"  he  shouted;  "  your  sister  wanted 
to  visit  with  you  over  night  and  see  Lettice.  We 
only  brought  two — the  oldest  and  Barnwell  K." 

The  "  oldest,"  Gordon  recalled,  was  the  girl  who 
had  worn  Clare's  silk  waist  and  "  run  the  colours  "; 
Barnwell  K.  Berry  was,  approximately,  ten. 

'''  That's  right,"  he  returned  cordially.  He 
assisted  in  running  the  carriage  back  by  the  shed. 
Lettice  and  his  sister  were  stiffly  facing  each  other 
in  the  sitting  room.  The  latter  had  a  fine,  thin 
countenance,  with  pale  hair  drawn  tightly  back  and 
fastened  under  a  small  hat  pinned  precariously 
aloft;  her  eyes  were  steady,  like  his  own.  She  wore 
a  black  dress  ornamented  with  large  carmine  dots, 
with  a  scant  black  ribband  about  her  waist,  her  sole 
adornment  a  brassy  wedding  ring  that  almost 
covered  an  entire  joint.  She  spoke  in  a  rapid,  absent 
voice,  as  if  her  attention  were  perpetually  wandering 

191 


192  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

down  from  the  subject  in  hand  to  an  invisible  kitchen 
stove  or  a  child  temporarily  unaccounted  for. 

"  Lettice  looks  right  good/'  she  declared,  "and, 
dear  me,  why  shouldn't  she,  with  nothing  on  her 
mind  at  all  but  what  comes  to  every  woman  ?  When 
I  had  my  last,  Rutherford  was  down  with  the  influ- 
enza, the  youngest  was  taken  with  green-sickness, 
and  we  had  worked  out  all  our  pay  at  the  store  in 
supplies.  You're  fixed  nice  here,"  she  added,  with- 
out a  trace  of  envy  in  her  tired  voice.  "  I  suppose 
that's  Mrs.  Hollidew  in  her  shroud.  We  have  one 
of  James — he  died  at  three — sitting  just  as  natural 
as  life  in  the  rocker." 

'  Where's  Rose  ?"  he  asked. 

"  In  the  kitchen,  helping  Mrs.  Caley.  I  wanted 
to  ask  that  nothing  be  said  before  Rose  of  Lettice 's 
expecting.  We've  brought  her  up  very  delicate; 
and  besides  there's  a  young  man  paying  her  atten- 
tion; it's  not  a  fitting  time — she  might  take  a  scare. 
I  had  promised  to  bring  Barnwell  K.  the  next  time." 

They  could  hear  from  without  the  boy  and  the 
hysterical  yelping  of  General  Jackson.  "  That 
dog  won't  bite  ?"  Mrs.  Berry  worried.  Gordon, 
patently  indignant,  replied  that  the  General  never 
bit.  "  Barnwell  might  cross  him,"  she  answered, 
and,  moving  to  the  door,  summoned  her  offspring. 
It  was  the  sturdy  individual  who  had  burst  into  a 
wail  at  Clare's  funeral,  his  hair  still  bristling  against 
a  formal  application  of  soap. 

"  C'm  on  in,  doggy,"  he  called;  "  c'm  in,  Ginral. 
I  wisht  I  had  a  doggy  like  that."  He  hung  on  his 
mother's  knees  lamenting  the  absence  from  their 
household  of  a  General  Jaclrson.  "  Our  ol'  houn' 
dog's  nothing,"  he  asserted. 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  193 

Lettice,  worn  by  her  visitor's  rapid  monotone,  the 
stir  and  clatter  of  young  shoes,  remarked  petulantly, 
"  Gordon  paid  two  hundred  dollars  for  that  single 
dog;  there  ought  to  be  something  extra  to  him/' 

Mrs.  Berry  received  this  item  without  signal 
amazement ;  it  was  evident  that  she  was  prepared  to 
credit  any  vagaries  to  the  possessors  of  Pompey 
Hollidew's  fabulous  legacy. 

"  Just  think  of  that  !"  she  exclaimed  mildly;  "  111 
chance  that  dog  gets  a  piece  of  liver  every  day." 

Rose,  from  the  door,  announced  supper.  She 
was  an  awkward  girl  of  seventeen,  with  the  pallid 
face  and  blank  brown  eyes  of  her  father,  and  diffi- 
dent speech.  Gordon  faced  Lettice  over  her  figured 
red  cloth;  on  one  side  Barnwell  K.  sat  flanked  by 
his  mother  and  Simeon  Caley,  on  the  other  Rose  sat 
by  an  empty  chair,  the  place  of  the  now  energetically 
employed  Mrs.  Caley.  The  great  tin  pot  of  coffee 
rested  at  Lettice 's  hand,  and,  before  Gordon,  a  por- 
tentous platter  held  three  gaunt  brown  chickens  with 
brilliant  yellow  legs  stiffly  in  air.  Between  these 
two  gastronomic  poles  was  a  dish  of  heaped, 
quivering  poached  eggs,  the  inevitable  gravy  boat, 
steaming  potatoes,  and  a  choice  of  pies.  Gordon 
dismembered  the  chickens,  and,  as  the  plates  circled 
the  table,  they  accumulated  potatoes  and  gravy 
and  eggs.  Barnwell  K.,  through  an  oversight,  was 
defrauded  of  the  last  item,  and  proceeded  to  remedy 
the  omission.  He  thrust  his  knife  into  the 
slippery  poached  mass — at  best  a  delicate  operation. 
He  erred,  eggs  slipped,  and  a  thick  yellow  stream 
flowed  sluggishly  to  the  rim  of  the  plate.  His  mother 
met  this  fault  of  manner  with  profuse,  disconcerted 
apologies.  She  shook  him  so  vigorously  that  his 

13 


194  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

chair  rattled.    Simeon  Caley  lifted  the  heavy  coffee 
pot  for  Lettice. 

Mrs.  Caley 's  service  was  abrupt,  efficient;  she  set 
down  plates  of  hot  bread  with  a  clatter ;  she  rattled 
the  stovelids  from  without,  and  complained  of 
General  Jackson,  faithfully  following  her  every 
movement. 

Sim  Caley  wielded  an  adroit  knife;  but,  under 
the  extraordinary  pressure  of  this  bountiful  repast, 
Rutherford  Berry  easily  outdistanced  him.  He  con- 
sumed such  unlimited  amounts  that  he  gained  the 
audible  displeasure  of  his  wife. 

'  You're  not  a  camel,"  she  truthfully  observed; 
''  you  don't  have  to  fill  up  for  a  week;  you  get  some- 
thing home.  What  Lettice'll  think  of  you  I  can't 
make  out." 

Substantial  sections  of  pie  were  dispatched. 
Barn  well  K.,  valiantly  endeavouring  to  emulate  his 
father,  struggled  manfully;  he  poked  the  last  piece 
of  crust  into  his  mouth  with  his  fingers.  Then,  in 
a  shrill  aside,  he  inquired,  "  Will  Aunt  Lettice  have 
the  baby  while  we're  here  ?"  His  mother's  hand 
rang  like  a  shot  on  his  face,  and  he  responded  in- 
stantly with  a  yell  of  appalling  volume. 

Lettice's  cup  struck  sharply  upon  its  saucer .  The 
delicate  Rose  flushed  appropriately,  painfully.  The 
culprit  was  hauled  incontinently,  dolefully  wailing, 
to  bed.  The  three  men  preserved  an  embarrassed 
silence.  Finally  Gordon  said,  "  Have  a  cigar." 
His  brother-in-law  responded  with  alacrity,  but 
Sim  preferred  his  plug  tobacco,  and  Gordon 
Makimmon  twisted  a  cigarette.  Sun  and  Ruther- 
ford were  patently  uncomfortable  amid  the  for- 
mality of  the  dining-room,  and,  at  Gordon's  sugges- 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  195 

tion,  trooped  with  relief  out  to  the  shed-like  stable. 
There  they  examined  critically  the  two  horses. 
Facing  the  stalls  was  an  open  space,  and  on  boxes 
and  the  remnant  of  a  chair  they  found  places  and 
smoked  and  spat  informally. 

'  You  could  study  a  life  on  women/'  Rutherford 
Berry  pronounced,  "  and  never  come  to  any  satis- 
faction. It  seems  to  me  the  better  they  be  the  more 
sharp-like  they  get.  There's  your  sister,  Gord — 
the  way  she  does  about  the  house,  and  with  all  the 
children  to  tend,  is  a  caution  to  Dunkards.  She 
does  all  you  could  ask  and  again.  But  it  just  seems 
she  can't  be  pleasant  with  it.  Now  there's  Nickles, 
next  place  to  me ;  his  old  woman's  not  worth  a  pinch 
of  powder,  but  she  is  the  nicest,  easiest  spoken  body 
you'd  meet  in  a  day  on  a  horse.  You  mind  Effie 
when  she  was  young,  Gord — she  just  trailed  song  all 
over  the  house,  but  it  wasn't  hardly  a  year  before  she 
got  penetrating  as  a  musket.  Rose  is  just  like  her 
—she's  all  taffy  now  on  that  young  man,  but  in  a 
little  spell  she'll  clamp  down  on  him." 

Gordon  had  a  swift  vision  of  Lettice  sharpening 
with  the  years ;  there  sounded  in  prospect  on  his  ear 
an  endless  roll  of  acidulous  remarks,  accompanied 
by  the  fretful  whine  of  children,  intensified  by  Mrs. 
Caley's  lowering  silence.  He  thought  of  the  change 
that  had  overtaken  his  sister  Effie,  remarked  by  her 
husband,  the  change  from  a  trim,  upright  figure  to 
the  present  stooped  form,  the  turning  of  that  voice 
brimming  with  song  to  a  continuous  shrill  troubling. 

The  cool,  disdainful  countenance  of  Meta  Beggs 
returned  to  him:  time,  he  divined,  would  not  mark 
her  in  so  sorry  a  fashion;  to  the  last  she  would 
remain  slimly  rounded,  graceful;  her  hands,  like 


198  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

magnolia  flowers,  would  never  thicken  and  grow 
rough.  He  thought  of  Paris,  of  that  life  which,  she 
said,  would  civilize  him;  he  tried  in  vain  to  form  an 
image  of  the  cafes  and  little  carriages,  the  bare- 
necked women  drinking  champagne.  He  recalled  a 
burlesque  show  he  had  once  seen  in  Stenton,  called 
"  The  French  Widows  ";  the  revealed  amplitude  of 
the  "  widows  "  had  been  clad  in  vivid  stained  pink 
tights;  the  scene  in  which  they  disported  with  a 
comic  Irishman,  a  lugubrious  Jew,  was  set  with 
gilded  palms,  a  saloon  bar  on  one  side  and  a  tank 
on  the  other  from  which  "  Venus  "  rose  flatly  from 
a  cotton  sea.  He  dismissed  that  possibility  of  re- 
semblance— it  was  too  palpably  at  variance  with 
what  Meta  Beggs  would  consider  desirable;  but, 
somehow,  pink  tights  and  Paris  were  synonymous 
in  his  thoughts.  At  any  rate  it  was  certain  to  be 
gay;  the  women  would  resemble  Nickles's  wife 
rather  than  his  sister  .  .  .  than  Lettice  as  she 
would  be  in  a  few  years. 

He  recalled  suddenly  a  neglected  rite  of  hospi- 
tality, and,  from  an  obscure  angle  of  the  shed,  pro- 
duced a  gallon  jug.  Drinking  vessels  were  procured 
and  a  pale,  pungent  whisky  poured  out.  Ruther- 
ford Berry  sputtered  and  gasped  over  his  glass;  Sim 
Caley  absorbed  a  brimming  measure  between 
breaths,  without  a  wink  of  the  eye;  Gordon  drank 
inattentively.  The  ceremony  was  repeated;  a  flare 
of  colour  rose  in  Berry's  pallid  countenance,  Sim's 
portion  apparently  evaporated  from  the  glass.  The 
whisky  made  no  visible  impression  on  Gordon 
Makimmon.  The  jug  was  circulated  again,  and 
again.  All  at  once  Rutherford  became  drunk.  He 
rose  swaying,  attempted  to  articulate,  and  fell,  half 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  197 

in  a  stall.  Simeon  Caley  pulled  him  out,  slapped 
his  back  with  a  hard,  gnarled  palm,  but  was  unable 
to  arouse  him  from  a  profound  stupor. 

"  He  ain't  right  strong,"  Sim  observed  with  a 
trace  of  contempt,  propping  the  figure  in  a  limp 
angle  against  the  wall.  It  was  dark  now,  and  he 
lit  the  hand  lantern,  cautiously  closing  the  door. 
Outside,  the  whippoorwills  had  begun  to  call.  A 
determined  rattling  of  pots  and  pans  sounded  from 
the  kitchen. 

"  How  much  is  in  her,  Gord  ?"  Sim  asked. 

Gordon  Makimnion  investigated  the  jug.  "  She's 
near  three-quarters  full,"  he  announced. 

An  expression  of  profound  content  settled  upon 
Simeon  Caley.  The  jug  went  round  and  round. 
Gordon  grew  a  shade  more  punctilious  than  cus- 
tomary, he  wiped  the  jug's  mouth  before  passing  it 
to  Sim — at  the  premature  retirement  of  Rutherford 
the  glasses  had  been  discarded  as  effete;  but  not  a 
degree  of  the  other's  manner  betrayed  the  influence 
of  his  Gargantuan  draughts  of  liquor.  The  lantern 
flickered  on  the  sloping  cobwebby  roof,  on  the 
shaggy  horses  as  they  lay  clumsily  down  to 
rest,  on  the  crumpled  figure  of  Gordon's  sister's 
husband. 

The  potations  were  suddenly  interrupted  by  a 
sharp  knocking  from  without.  An  expression  of 
concern  instantly  banished  Sim's  content;  he 
gazed  doubtfully  at  the  jug,  then,  as  Gordon 
made  no  move,  rose  and  with  marked  diffidence 
proceeded  to  open  the  door.  The  lantern  light 
fell  on  the  gaunt,  bitter  countenance  of  his  wife 
framed  in  imponderable  night.  In  the  wavering 
radiance  her  eyes  made  liquid  gleams  which, 


198  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

directed  at  Gordon,  seemed  to  be  visible  points 
of  hatred. 

"  It's  ten  o'clock,"  she  said  to  her  husband,  "  and 
if  you  hain't  got  enough  sense  to  go  to  bed,  I'll  put 
you/' 

"I'm  coming  right  along,"  he  assured  her  pacifi- 
cally; "  we  were  just  having  a  drink  around." 

"  Mrs.  Berry's  asking  for  her  husband,"  she 
added,  gazing  at  that  insensate  form. 

"  He  must  be  kind  of  bad  to  his  stomach,"  Sim 
remarked;  "  he  dropped  with  nothing 't  all  on  him." 
He  bent  and  picked  the  other  up.  Rutherford 
Berry's  arms  hung  limply  over  Sim's  grasp;  his 
feet  dragged  heavily,  in  unexpected  angles,  over  the 
floor.  "  Coming,  Gord  ?" 

Gordon  made  no  reply.  He  sat  intent  upon  the 
jug  before  him.  Simeon  considerately  shut  the 
door.  At  regular  intervals  Gordon  Makimmon  took 
a  long  drink.  He  drank  mechanically,  without  any 
evidence  of  desire  or  pleasure ;  he  resembled  a  man 
blindly  performing  a  fatiguing  operation  in  his 
sleep ;  he  had  the  fixed,  open  eyes  of  a  sleep-walker, 
the  precise,  unnatural  movements.  The  lantern 
burned  steadily,  the  horses  slept  with  an  audible 
breathing.  Finally  the  jug  was  empty;  he  endea- 
voured to  drink  twice  after  that  was  a  fact,  before 
discovering  it. 

He  rose  stiffly  and  threw  open  the  door.  Dawn 
was  flushing  behind  the  eastern  range;  the  tops 
of  the  mountains  were  thinly  visible  on  the  bright- 
ening sky.  His  dwelling,  with  every  window  closed, 
was  silvery  with  dew.  He  walked  slowly,  but  with- 
out faltering,  to  the  porch,  and  mounted  the  steps 
from  the  sod;  the  ascent  seemed  surprisingly  steep, 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  199 

long.  The  door  to  the  dining-room  was  unlocked 
and  he  entered ;  in  the  thinning  gloom  he  could  dis- 
tinguish the  table  set  as  usual,  the  coffee  pot  at 
Lettice's  place  glimmering  faintly.  He  turned  to 
the  left  and  passed  into  their  bedroom.  The  details 
of  the  chamber  were  growing  clear;  the  bed  was 
placed  against  the  farther  wall,  projecting  into  the 
room,  its  low  footboard  held  between  posts  that 
rose  slimly  dark  against  the  white  counterpane 
beyond;  on  the  right  were  a  window  and  a  high 
chest  of  drawers,  on  the  left  a  stand  with  a  china 
toilet  service  and  a  couch  covered  with  sheep  skins, 
roughly  tanned  and  untrimmed.  A  chair  by  the  bed 
bore  Lettice's  clothes,  another  at  the  foot  awaited 
his  own.  By  his  side  a  curtain  hung  out  from  the 
wall,  forming  a  wardrobe. 

He  vaguely  made  out  the  form  of  Lettice  sitting 
upright  in  the  bed,  her  hands  clasped  about  her 
knees. 

"  Your  brother-in-law,"  he  observed,  "is  a 
powerful  spindling  man."  She  made  no  rejoinder 
to  this,  and,  after  a  short  pause,  he  further 
remarked,  "  How  he  gets  on  sociable  I  don't 
see." 

His  wife's  eyes  were  opened  wide,  gazing  intently 
into  the  greying  room;  not  by  a  sound,  a  motion, 
did  she  show  any  consciousness  of  his  presence.  He 
was  deliberate  in  his  movements,  very  deliberate, 
laboriously  exact  in  his  mental  processes,  but  they 
were  ordered,  logical.  It  began  to  annoy  him  that 
his  wife  had  made  no  reply  to  his  pleasantries;  it 
was  out  of  reason;  he  wasn't  drunk  like  Rutherford 
Berry. 

"  I  said, "he  pronounced,  "  that  Berry  is  a  nubbin. 


200  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

Didn't  you  hear  me  ?  haven't  you  got  an  answer  to 
you  ?" 

She  sat  gazing  into  nothingness,  ignoring  him 
completely. 

His  resentment  changed  to  anger;  he  moved  to 
the  foot  of  the  bed,  where,  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  he 
harangued  her: 

"  I  want  a  cheerful  wife,  one  with  a  song  to  her, 
and  not  a  dam'  female  elder  around  the  house.  A 
good  woman  is  a — a  jewel,  but  when  your  goodness 
gives  you  a  face-ache  it's  .  .  .  it's  something 
different,  it's  a  nuisance.  I'd  almost  rather  have 
a  wife  that  wasn't  so  good  but  had  some  give  to 
her."  He  sat  down,  clutching  a  heavy  shoe  which 
came  off  suddenly.  Lettice  was  as  immobile  as  the 
chest  of  drawers. 

"  Goddy  knows,"  he  burst  out  again,  "  it's  solemn 
enough  around  here  anyhow,  with  Sim  Caley's  old 
woman  like  a  grave  hole,  and  now  you  go  and  get 
it  too.  .  .  .  Berry  might  put  up  with  it,  and  Sim's 
just  fool-hearted,  but  a  regular  man  wouldn't  abide 
it;  he'd — he'd  go  to  Paris,  where  the  women  are 
civilized  and  dance  all  night."  He  muttered  an 
unintelligible  period  about  French  widows  and  pink. 
.  .  .  "  Buried  before  my  time,"  he  proclaimed.  He 
stood  with  his  head  grizzled  and  harsh  above  an 
absurdly  flowing  nightshirt.  In  the  deepening 
light  Lettice's  countenance  seemed  thinner  than 
usual;  her  round,  staring  eyes  were  frightened, 
as  though  she  had  seen  in  the  night  the  visible 
apparition  of  the  curse  of  suffering  laid  upon  all 
birth. 

"  You  look  like  you've  taken  leave  of  your  wits," 
he  exclaimed  in  an  accumulated  exasperation;  "  say 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  201 

something."  He  leaned  across  the  bed  and,  grasp- 
ing her  elbow,  shook  her.  She  was  as  rigid,  as 
unyielding,  as  the  bed  posts.  Then  with  a  long, 
slow  shudder  she  turned  and  buried  her  head  in  the 
pillow. 


XIV 

RUTHERFORD  BERRY  and  Effie,  Barnwell  K.  and 
the  delicate  Rose,  went  after  breakfast.  Sim  drove 
off  behind  the  sturdy  horse,  and  Mrs.  Caley  was 
audibly  energetic  in  the  kitchen.  When  Gordon 
appeared  on  the  porch  Lettice  was  seated  in  the 
low  rocker  that  had  so  often  held  Clare.  She 
responded  in  a  suppressed  voice  to  her  husband's 
salutation.  '  You  went  and  spoiled  Effie's  whole 
visit,"  she  informed  him,  "  making  Rutherford 
drunk." 

'Why,"  he  protested,  "we  never;  he  just  got 
himself  drunk." 

"  It  was  mean  anyway — sitting  drinking  all  night 
in  the  stable." 

'  You'll  say  I  was  drunk  too,  next." 

"  It  doesn't  matter  to  you  what  I  say,  or  what  I 
go  through  with.  I've  stood  more  than  I  rightly 
ought,  more  than  I'm  going  to — you  must  give  me 
one  thought  in  a  day.  You  just  act  low.  Father 
was  self-headed,  but  he  was  never  real  trashy.  He 
never  got  into  fights  at  those  common  camp 
meetings." 

"  I  threw  the  stone  that  hit  Buck,  didn't  I !  I 
busted  his  head  open,  didn't  I !  Oh,  of  course,  I'm 
to  blame  for  it  all  ...  put  it  on  me." 

'  Well,  how  did  you  get  in  it  ?  how  did  you  get 
mixed  up  with  the  school-teacher  ?" 

202 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  203 

"  I  got  Mrs.  Caley  to  thank  for  this,  and  I'll 
thank  her."  He  hotly  recited  the  obvious  aspect 
of  his  connection  at  the  camp  meeting  with  Meta 
Beggs. 

"  It  sounds  all  right  as  far  as  it  goes,"  she  re- 
torted; "  but  I'll  chance  there's  a  good  deal  more; 
I'll  chance  you  had  it  made  up  to  meet  her  there. 
You  would  never  have  gone  for  any  other  reason; 
I  don't  believe  you  have  been  to  a  revival  for  twenty 
years.  You  had  it  made  up  between  you.  And 
that  Miss  Beggs  is  too  smart  for  you;  she'll  fool  you 
all  over  the  mountain.  I  don't  like  her,  either,  and 
I  don't  want  you  to  give  her  the  satisfaction  of 
making  up  to  you.  It's  what  she'd  like — laughing 
at  my  back !" 

"  Miss  Beggs  never  spoke  any  harm  of  you." 

She  made  a  gesture,  hopeless,  impatient,  at  his 
innocence.  Her  resentment  burst  out  again,  "  Why 
does  she  want  to  speak  to  you — another  woman's 
husband  ?  Anybody  knows  it's  low-down.  When 
did  you  see  her  ?  What  did  you  talk  about  ?" 

"  Of  course  when  I  see  her  coming  I  ought  to  go 
'round  by  South  Fork,"  he  replied,  heavily  sar- 
castic. 

'  Well,  you  don't  have  to  stand  and  talk  like  I 
warrant  you  do.  There's  something  deep  about  her 
look." 

"  I've  taken  care  of  myself  for  some  years,  and 
I  guess  I  can  keep  on." 

'  You  can  if  you  want  to  go  to  ruin,  like  you  were 
when  I  married  you,  and  you  only  had  one  shirt  to 
your  name." 

'  Throw  it  up  to  me.  It's  no  wonder  a  man 
drinks  here;  he's  got  more  to  forget  than  to  think 


402  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

about."  He  stepped  from  the  porch,  preparing  to 
leave. 

"Wait!"  she  commanded;  "I'll  put  up  with 
being  left,  and  having  you  drink  all  night  with  the 
beasts,  and  fooling  my  money  away,  but  " — her 
voice  rose  and  her  eyes  burned  over  dark  shadows — 
"  I  won't  put  up  with  another  woman,  I  won't  put 
up  with  that  thin  thing  making  over  my  husband. 
I  won't !  I  won't !  do  you  understand  that  ?  .  .  . 
I— I  can't." 

He  wrent  around  the  corner  of  the  house  with  her 
last  words  ringing  in  his  ears,  kicking  angrily  at  the 
rough  sod.  His  house,  between  Mrs.  Caley's  glum 
silence  and  Lettice's  ceaseless  complaining,  was 
becoming  uninhabitable.  And,  as  Rutherford 
Berry  had  pointed  out,  the  latter  would  only  in- 
crease, sharpen,  with  the  years.  Lettice  was  a 
good  wife;  she  was  not  like  Nickles's  old  woman, 
worthless  but  the  pleasantest  body  you'd  meet  in 
a  day  on  a  horse.  She  was  not  like  Meta  Beggs. 
He  had  never  seen  any  other  like  her.  Lettice  had 
said  that  she  would  fool  him  all  over  the  mountain 
.  .  .  but  not  him,  not  Gordon  Makimmon,  he 
thought  complacently. 

He  was  well  versed  in  the  ways  of  women;  he 
would  not  go  a  step  that  he  did  not  intend,  under- 
stand. This  business  of  Paris,  for  example:  he 
might  tell  Meta  Beggs  that  he'd  go,  and  then,  at — 
say,  Norfolk,  he  wrould  change  his  mind.  Anyhow 
that  was  a  plan  worth  considering.  He  recalled  the 
school-teacher's  level,  penetrating  gaze;  she  was  as 
smart  as  Lettice  had  divined;  he  would  have  diffi- 
culty in  fooling  her.  He  felt  obscurely  that  any 
step  taken  with  her  would  prove  irrevocable. 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  205 

Lettice  kept  at  him  and  at  him;  after  the  baby 
arrived  it  would  be  no  better;  there  would  be  others; 
he  regarded  a  succession  of  such  periods,  a  succes- 
sion of  babies,  with  marked  disfavour.  He  had  been 
detached  for  so  long  from  the  restraints  of  common- 
place, reputable  relationships  that  they  grew  increas- 
ingly irksome,  they  chafed  the  old,  established  free- 
dom of  morals  and  action.  Meta  Beggs  blew  into 
fresh  flame  the  embers  of  dying  years.  And  yet,  as 
he  had  told  her  by  the  stream,  an  involuntary  lassi- 
tude, a  new  stiffness,  had  fallen  upon  his  desire. 
Although  his  marriage  was  burdensome,  it  was  an 
accomplished  fact;  Lettice's  wishes,  her  quality  of 
steadfastness,  exerted  their  influence  upon  him. 

They  operated  now  to  increase  his  resentment; 
they  formed  an  almost  detached  disapproval 
situated  within  his  own  breast,  a  criticism  of  his 
thoughts,  his  emotions,  against  which  he  vainly 
raged,  setting  himself  pointedly  in  its  defiance. 

He  lounged  past  the  Courthouse,  past  Peterman's 
hotel,  to  the  post-office.  It  \vas  a  small  frame  struc- 
ture, with  the  wing  of  the  postmaster's  residence  ex- 
tending from  the  back.  At  the  right  of  the  entrance 
was  a  small  show  window  holding  two  watches  with 
shut  chased  silver  lids,  and  a  small  pasteboard  box 
lined  with  faded  olive-coloured  plush  containing  two 
plated  nut  crackers  and  six  picks.  The  postmaster 
was  the  local  jeweller.  Within,  beyond  the  window 
which  gave  access  to  the  governmental  activities,  a 
glass  case  rested  on  the  counter.  It  was  filled  with 
an  assortment  of  trinkets— rings  with  large,  highly- 
coloured  stones,  wedding  bands,  gold  pins,  and 
bangles  engraved  with  women's  flowery  names ;  and, 
laid  by  itself,  a  necklace  of  looped  seed  pearls. 


206  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

The  latter  captured  Gordon's  attention,  it  was  so 
pale,  and  yet,  at  the  same  time,  so  suggestive  of 
elusive  colours;  it  was  so  slender  and  graceful,  so 
finished,  that  it  irresistibly  recalled  the  person  of 
Meta  Beggs. 

"  Let's  see  that  string  of  pearls,"  he  requested. 

The  postmaster  laid  it  on  top  of  the  glass  case. 
'  The  jobber  sent  it  up  by  accident,"  he  explained; 
"  I  can't  see  anything  to  it — for  the  price;  it's  too 
slimsy.  I  wouldn't  advise  it,  Gord.  Why,  for 
thirty  dollars,  and  that's  what  it  costs — diamond 
clasp,  you  can  get  a  string  of  fish  skin  pearls,  experts 
can't  tell  'em  from  original,  as  big  as  your  finger  end, 
that  would  go  twice  about  the  neck  and  then  hang 
some." 

The  necklace  slipped  coldly  through  Gordon 
Maldmmon's  hand;  it  reminded  him  of  a  small, 
pearly  snake  with  a  diamond  head ;  it  increasingly 
reminded  him  of  Meta  Beggs.  She  loved  jewelry. 
If  she  had  kissed  him  for  a  pair  of  silk  stockings — 

"  I  think  I'll  take  it,"  he  decided  slowly;  "  I  don't 
know  if  I've  got  her  right  here  in  my  pants." 

"  Now,  Gordon,"  the  other  heartily  reassured  him, 
"  whenever  you  like.  Of  course  it's  a  fine  article 
— all  strung  on  gold  wire.  I  won't  be  surprised 
but  Lettice'll  think  it's  elegant.  I  often  wondered 
why  you  didn't  step  in  lately  and  look  over  my 
stock;  ladies  put  a  lot  on  such  little  trifles." 

Meta  Beggs  would  have  to  wear  it  under  her  dress 
in  Greenstream,  he  realized ;  perhaps  she  had  better 
not  wear  it  at  all  until  she  was  out  of  the  valley. 
He  would  clasp  the  pearls  about  that  smooth  round 
throat.  .  .  .  The  postmaster  wrapped  the  pearls 
into  a  small  square  package,  talking  voluminously. 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  207 

A  new  driver  of  the  Stenton  stage  had  lost  a  mail 
bag,  he  had  lamed  a  horse — a  satisfactory  driver 
had  not  been  discovered  since  Gordon  .  .  .  left. 
He  had  heard  of  a  law  restraining  the  sale  of  patent 
medicines,  of  Snibbs's  Mixture,  and  what  the  local 
drinkers  would  do,  already  deprived  of  the  more 
legitimate  forms  of  spirituous  refreshment,  was 
difficult  to  say.  The  postmaster  predicted  they 
would  take  to  "  dope."  Then  there  was  to  be  a 
sap-boiling  over  on  the  western  mountain,  to- 
morrow night,  at  old  man  Entriken's.  .  .  .  Every- 
body had  been  invited;  if  the  weather  was  ugly  it 
would  take  place  the  first  clear  spell. 

Sap-boilings,  Gordon  knew,  held  late  in  spring  in 
the  maple  groves,  lasted  all  night.  Baskets  of  food 
were  driven  to  the  scene;  the  fires  under  the  great 
iron  kettles  were  kept  replenished;  everybody 
stirred  the  bubbling  sap,  ate,  gabbled;  the  young 
people  even  danced  on  the  grass. 

It  was  a  romantic  ceremonial:  the  unusual  hours 
of  its  celebration,  the  mystery  of  night  in  close 
groves  lit  by  the  stars,  temporarily  unsettled  life 
from  its  prosaic,  arduous  journey  toward  the  inevit- 
able, blind  termination.  It  moved  the  thoughts  into 
unwonted  fantasy,  the  heart  to  new,  unguessed  pos- 
sibilities. For  that  night  established  values,  life-long 
habits,  negations,  prudence,  were  set  at  naught. 

Gordon  wondered  whether  Meta  Beggs  would  be 
there.  He  should  like  to  be  with  her  at  a  sap-boil- 
ing, in  the  sooty  shadows.  With  the  necklace  of 
seed  pearls  in  his  pocket  he  walked  over  the  street, 
revolving  in  his  mind  the  problem  of  asking  her  to 
accompany  him.  He  could  not  hope  to  hide  it 
from  Lettice ;  and,  to-day,  he  had  recognized  a  note 


208  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

of  finality  in  his  wife's  voice  with  regard  to  the 
school-teacher.  If  he  went  with  Meta  Beggs,  serious 
trouble  would  ensue  in  his  home.  .  .  .  He  wished  to 
avoid  any  actual  outbreak  with  Lettice.  He  remem- 
bered, tardily,  her  condition;  it  would  be  dangerous 
for  her.  He  might,  conceivably,  at  some  time 
or  other,  go  away;  even  to  Paris — yet,  at  that 
latter  thought,  the  wish,  almost  the  necessity,  of  a 
return  lingered  at  the  back  of  his  brain — but  he 
would  not  goad  her  into  an  explosion  of  misery  and 
temper.  He  acknowledged  to  himself,  with  a  faint 
glow  of  pride,  that  he  was  not  anxious  to  encounter 
Lettice  Makimmon's  full  displeasure ;  she  possessed 
the  capability  of  tenacity,  an  iron-like  resolve,  in- 
herited from  old  Pompey. 

In  the  outcome  his  difficulty  was  unexpectedly 
solved  for  him — a  large  farm  wagon,  with  boards 
temporarily  laid  from  side  to  side,  was  to  convey 
a  quantity  of  people,  and  among  them  Meta  Beggs, 
from  the  village  to  the  sap-boiling.  He  learned  this 
from  the  idlers  before  the  Bugle  office.  Sitting  with 
his  chair  canted  against  that  dingy  wooden  facade, 
he  thought  of  the  school-teacher  and  the  coming 
night.  It  was  late  afternoon  of  the  day  on  which  he 
had  bought  the  necklace.  The  small  package  still 
rested  in  his  pocket.  It  had  been  his  intention  to 
give  the  pearls  to  Meta  Beggs  before  he  returned  to 
his  home,  but  no  opportunity  had  offered.  After 
school  she  had  passed  the  seated  row  of  men,  un- 
easily stirring  their  hats  in  response  to  her  collected 
greeting,  and,  with  Mrs.  Peterman,  gone  into  the 
body  of  the  hotel.  Gordon  could  not  follow  her. 
Anyhow,  the  presentation  could  be  made  with 
better  effect  in  the  obscurity  of  the  maples  to- 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  209 

morrow  night  .  .  .  her  gratitude  could  have  fuller 
sweep. 

He  made  his  way  finally,  reluctantly,  home. 
There,  alone  in  the  bedroom,  he  swiftly  withdrew 
the  necklace  from  its  pasteboard  box  and  dropped 
it  into  the  pocket  of  a  coat  hanging  in  the  curtained 
wardrobe.  It  was,  he  noted,  the  checked  suit  with 
the  red  thread,  the  one  he  would  wear  to  the  sap- 
boiling.  He  heard  approaching  footsteps,  and, 
hastily  crumpling  the  paper  and  small  box  into  a 
compact  unit,  he  flung  it  into  a  corner  of  the  ward- 
robe, behind  a  heap  of  linen. 


14 


XV 

IT  was  comparatively  a  short  distance  to  the  elder 
Entriken's  farm,  and,  rather  than  invent  a  laborious 
explanation  of  the  horse's  absence  all  night,  Gordon 
walked.  Numberless  excuses  offered  him  plausible 
reason  for  his  own  delayed  return  home.  It  was 
better  to  say  nothing  to  Lettice  of  his  actual  inten- 
tion; she  was  already  suspicious  of  his  sudden 
interest  in  local  gatherings. 

The  road  beyond  Greenstream  village  crossed  a 
brook  and  mounted  by  sharp  turns  the  western 
range.  The  day  had  faded  to  amethyst,  pale  in  the 
translucent  vault  of  the  sky,  deepening  in  the 
valley;  the  plum-coloured  smoke  of  evening  fires  as- 
cended in  tenuous  columns  to  an  incredible  height. 
He  walked  rapidly,  with  the  oppressed  heart  that 
had  lately  grown  familiar,  the  sense  of  imminence, 
the  feeling  of  advancing  into  a  vague,  towering 
shadow.  That  last  sensation  was  at  once  new  and 
familiar — where  before  had  he  been  conscious  of  a 
vast,  indefinable  peril,  blacker  than  night,  looming 
implacably  before  him  ?  He  summoned  his  old 
hardihood  and  advanced  over  the  still,  bosky  side  of 
the  mountain. 

He  descended,  beyond  the  ridge,  into  the  fact  of 
evening  accomplished.  At  the  base  of  the  range  he 
crossed  a  softly-swelling  expanse  of  close-cropped 

210 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  211 

grass,  skirted  a  bog  and  troop  of  naked-seeming 
birches,  and  came  in  view  of  the  maple  grove 
toward  which  he  was  bound. 

The  maple  trees  towered  compact  and  majestic 
over  the  level  sod,  holding  their  massed  foliage 
black  against  the  green  sky.  Low  in  the  right  the 
new  moon  hung  like  a  gold  fillet  above  the  odorous, 
crepuscular  earth;  and,  at  the  base  of  the  trees,  the 
fires  were  like  bubbling  crimson  sealing  wax  poured 
into  the  deeper  indigo  gloom. 

As  Gordon  advanced  he  saw  a  number  of  vehicles, 
from  which  the  horses  had  been  taken  and  tied  to  an 
improvised  railing.  Figures  moved  darkly  against 
the  flames;  beyond,  familiar  features  flickered  like 
partial,  painted  masks  on  the  night.  In  the  grove 
the  sap,  stirred  in  the  great  iron  kettles,  kept  up  a 
constant  choking  minor;  the  smooth  trunks  of  the 
trees  swept  up  from  the  unsteady  radiance  into  the 
obscurity  of  invisible  branches  looped  with  silver 
strings  of  stars. 

Blurred  forms  moved  everywhere.  He  searched 
for  Meta  Beggs.  She  was  not  by  the  kettles  of  sap ; 
beyond  the  trees,  by  covered  baskets  of  provisions, 
lanterns  made  a  saffron  pool  of  light,  but  she  was  not 
there.  He  felt  in  his  pocket  the  cool,  sinuous  neck- 
lace. Finally  he  found  her;  or,  rather,  she  slipped 
illusively  into  his  contracted  field  of  vision. 

1  You  didn't  tell  me  you  were  coming/'  she 
reproached  him. 

She  wore  a  red  dress,  purple  in  the  night,  with  a 
narrow  black  velvet  ribband  pinned  about  her 
throat ;  her  straw  hat  was  bound  in  red.  She  gained 
an  extraordinary  potency  from  the  dark;  it  almost 
seemed  to  Gordon  Makimmon  that  her  skin  had  a 


212  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

luminous  quality;  he  could  see  her  pointed  hands 
distinctly,  and  her  small,  cold  face.  All  her  dresses 
strained  about  her  provocative  body,  an  emphasis 
rather  than  a  covering  of  her  slim  maturity.  They 
drifted,  without  further  speech,  out  of  the  circles  of 
wavering  light,  into  the  obscurity  beyond. 

They  sat,  resting  against  a  hillock  of  sod,  facing 
the  sinking  visible  rim  of  the  moon.  From  the  bog 
the  frogs  sounded  like  a  continuously  and  lightly- 
struck  xylophone.  Meta  Beggs  shivered. 

'I'll  go  mad  here,"  she  declared,  "  in  this — this 
nothingness.  Look — the  moon  dropping  into 
wilderness;  other  lucky  people  are  watching  it 
disappear  behind  great  houses  and  gardens ;  women 
in  the  arms  of  their  lovers  are  watching  it  through 
silk  curtains." 

He  gazed  critically  over  the  valley,  the  moun- 
tains, into  the  sky  scarfed  by  night.  "  I'm  used  to 
it,"  he  returned;  "  it  doesn't  bother  me  like  it  does 
you.  Some  people  even  like  it.  A  man  who  came 
here  from  the  city  to  die  of  lung  trouble  sat  for 
weeks  looking  up  Greenstream  valley;  he  couldn't 
get  enough,  morning  or  evening." 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  die,  I  want  to  live.  I'm 
going  to  live,  too;  I've  decided— 

'  What  ?" 

11  To  stop  teaching.  When  the  term's  over,  in  a 
few  weeks,  I'm  going  to  take  the  money  I  make  and 
go  to  New  York.  It  will  be  just  enough  to  get  me 
there  and  buy  me  a  pretty  hat,  with  a  few  dollars 
over.  I  am  going  with  those  into  a  cafe  and  get  a 
bottle  of  champagne,  and  pick  out  the  man  with 
the  best  clothes.  I'll  tell  him  I'm  a  poor  school- 
teacher from  the  South  who  came  to  New  York  to 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  213 

meet  a  man  who  promised  to  marry  me,  but  who  had 
not  kept  his  word.  I'll  tell  him  that  I'm  good — I 
can,  you  know ;  no  man  has  ever  fooled  anything  out 
of  me — and  that  I  bought  wine  to  get  the  courage  to 
kill  myself." 

tf  It  sounds  right  smart/5  he  admitted;  "  you  can 
do  it,  too;  you  can  lie  like  hell.  But,"  he  added  im- 
portantly, "  I  don't  know  that  I  will  let  you."  This, 
he  assured  himself,  was  purely  experimental.  He 
had  decided  nothing;  his  course  in  the  future  was 
hidden  from  him  absolutely.  He  thought  discon- 
tentedly of  his  home,  of  the  imagined  long,  dun  vista 
of  years. 

He  was  now,  he  realized  dimly,  at  the  crucial 
point  of  his  existence;  with  Meta  Beggs,  in  that 
world  of  which  Paris  was  the  prefigurement,  he 
might  still  wring  from  life  a  measure  of  the  sharp 
pleasures  of  tempestuous  youth  and  manhood;  he 
might  still  dance  to  the  piping  of  the  senses.  With 
Lettice  in  Greenstream  he  would  rapidly  sink  into 
the  dullness  of  increasing  age. 

He  was  vaguely  conscious  of  the  baseness  of  the 
mere  weighing  of  such  a  choice;  but  he  was  en- 
gulfed in  his  overmastering  egotism;  his  sense  of 
obligation  was  dulled  by  the  supreme  selfishness  of 
a  life-time,  of  a  life-time  of  unbridled  temper  and 
appetite,  of  a  swaggering  self-esteem  which  the  re- 
morseless operation  of  fate  had  ignored,  had  passed 
indifferently  by,  leaving  him  in  complete  ignorance 
of  the  terrible  and  grim  possibilities  of  human 
mischance. 

He  had  suffered  at  the  loss  of  his  dwelling,  but 
principally  it  had  been  his  pride  that  had  borne  the 
wound ;  Clare's  death  had  affected  him  finally  as  the 


214  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

arbitrary|removal  of  a  sentimental  object  for  his 
care,  on^which  to  lavish  the  gifts  of  his  large 
generosity. 

He  sat  revolving  in  his  mind  the  choice  of  paths 
which  seemed  to  open  for  his  decision  in  such 
different  directions,  which  seemed  to  await  the 
simple^ordering  of  his  footsteps  as  he  chose.  The 
night^deepened  to  its  darkest  hour;  the  moon,  in 
obedience  to  its  automatic  fixed  course,  had  van- 
ished behind  the  mountains;  the  frogs,  out  of  their 
slime,  raised  their  shrill  plaint  of  life  in  death. 


XVI 

11  FVE    got    something    for    you,"    Gordon    said 
suddenly. 

"  I  hope  it's  pretty,"  she  replied,  leaning  forward, 
resting  against  his  shoulder. 

He  brought  from  his  pocket  the  slender  looped 
necklace  of  seed  pearls.  It  was  faintly  visible  in  the 
dark;  the  diamond  clasp  made  a  small  glint.  She 
took  it  eagerly  from  him.  "  I'll  light  a  match,"  he 
told  her.  In  the  minute  orange  radiance  the  pearls 
shimmered  in  her  ringers. 

"  But  it's  wonderful  \"  she  exclaimed,  unable  to 
suppress  her  surprise  at  his  unerring  choice;  "  it's 
exactly  right.  Have  you  been  to  Stenton  ?  however 
could  you  get  this  here  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  know  a  few  things,"  he  assured  her;  "  I 
got  an  eye.  Let  me  put  it  on  for  you."  He  took 
it  from  her,  and  his  hands  fumbled  about  her  smooth 
throat.  He  required  a  long  time  to  fasten  it.  The 
intoxication  of  the  subtlety  of  her  sex  welled  from 
hand  to  head.  He  kissed  her  still  lips  until  he 
ceased  from  sheer  lack  of  breath.  He  drew  her 
close  to  him,  with  an  arm  about  her  pliant  waist. 

"  I've  been  thinking  of  you  in  those  pretty 
clothes,"  he  admitted. 

"  All  lace  and  webby  pink  silk  and  ribbands  un- 
derneath," she  reminded  him;  "  but  only  for  you, 
and  satin  trains  and  diamonds  for  the  others." 

215 


216  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

Her  words  winged  like  little  flames  into  his  imagi- 
nation. He  whispered  in  her  ear,  "  Richmond." 
She  stiffened  in  his  arms  as  if  that  single  word  had 
the  power  to  freeze  her.  '  We'll  see,  we'll  see/' 
he  added  hastily,  fearing  to  dispel  her  complacency. 
"  Paris  is  a  long  way  ...  a  man  could  never  come 
back." 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  so  cautious,"  she  chal- 
lenged; "  I  thought  you  were  bolder — that's  your 
reputation  in  Greenstream,  a  bad  one  for  a  man 
or  woman  to  cross." 

"  So  I've  been,"  he  acknowledged;  "  I  told  you  I 
wouldn't  have  hesitated  a  while  back." 

'  What  is  holding  you  now — your  wife  ?  She 
would  soon  get  over  it.  She's  only  a  girl ;  she  hasn't 
had  enough  experience  to  hold  a  man.  Besides,  she 
must  know  by  now  that  you  only  married  her  for 
money;  she  must  know  you  don't  care  for  her; 
women  always  find  out." 

The  bald,  incontestable  statement  of  his  reason 
for  marrying  Lettice  disconcerted  him.  He  had 
never  made  the  acknowledgment  of  putting  it  into 
words  to  himself,  and  no  one  else  had  openly 
guessed,  had  dared.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  it  appeared  to  him  in  the  light  of  a 
possible  act  of  cowardice — Lettice,  a  girl,  blinded 
by  affection.  And,  equally,  it  was  undeniably  true 
that  he  did  not  care  for  her  ...  he  did  not  care  for 
her  ?  that  realization  too  carried  a  slight  sting. 
But  neither  did  he  care  for  Meta  Beggs ;  something 
different  attracted  him  to  her;  she — she  brought 
him  out,  that  was  it;  she  ministered  to  his  pleasure, 
his  desire,  his 

"  Don't,"  she  said  firmly. 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  217 

His  balked  feelings  overmastered  him,  and  he 
disregarded  her  prohibition.  She  slipped  from  his 
grasp,  as  lithely  as  the  serpentine  pearls  had  run 
through  his  fingers. 

"  Haven't  you  learned/'  she  demanded,  standing, 
ff  that  I  can't  be  bought  with  silk  stockings  or  a  little 
necklace  ?  Or,  perhaps,  you  are  cheap,  and  I  have 
been  entirely  wrong.  ...  I'm  going  to  get  some- 
thing to  eat,  with  the  people  who  brought  me  from 
Greenstream.  I  will  be  back  here  in  two  hours,  but 
it  will  be  for  the  last  time.  You  must  decide  one 
way  or  the  other  while  I  am  gone.  You  may  stay  or 
leave;  I'm  going  to  leave.  Remember — no  more 
penny  kisses,  no  more  meetings  like  this;  it  must  be 
all  or  nothing.  Some  man  will  take  me  to  Paris, 
have  me."  She  dissolved  against  the  dark  of  the 
maple  grove. 


XVII 

BUT,  curiously,  sitting  alone,  he  gave  little  con- 
sideration to  the  decision,  immediate  and  irrevoc- 
able, which  confronted  him.  His  thoughts  evaded, 
defied,  him,  retreated  into  night-like  obscurity, 
returned  burdened  with  trivial  and  unexpected 
details  of  memory.  It  grew  colder;  the  rich  mono- 
tone of  mountain  and  sky  changed  to  an  impene- 
trable ugly  density  above  which  the  constellations 
wheeled  without  colour.  His  back  was  toward  the 
maple  grove;  the  removed,  disembodied  voices 
mingled  in  a  sound  not  more  intelligible  than  the 
chorus  of  frogs.  It  occurred  to  him  suddenly  that, 
perhaps,  in  a  week,  a  month,  he  might  not  be  in 
Greenstream,  nor  in  the  mountains,  but  with  the 
white  body  of  Meta  Beggs  in  the  midst  of  one  of 
those  vast,  fabulous  cities,  the  lust  of  which  pos- 
sessed her  so  utterly.  ...  Or  she  would  be  gone. 
He  thought  instinctively  of  the  little  cemetery  on 
the  slope  above  the  village.  One  by  one  that  rocky 
patch  was  absorbing  family  and  familiars.  Life 
appeared  to  be  a  stumbling  procession  winding 
through  Greenstream  over  the  rise  and  sinking  into 
that  gaping,  insatiable  chasm.  He  was  conscious 
of  an  invisible  force  propelling  him  into  that  sorry 
parade,  toward  those  unpretentious  stones  marked 
with  the  shibboleth  of  names  and  dates.  A  des- 

218 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  219 

perate  anxiety  to  evade  this  fate  set  his  soul  cower- 
ing in  its  fatal  mask  of  clay.  This,  he  realized,  was 
unadulterated  childish  fear,  and  he  angrily  aroused 
himself  from  its  stifling  influence. 

Meta  Beggs  would  be  back  soon;  she  would 
require  an  answer  to  her  resolve  ...  all  or  nothing. 
The  heat,  chilled  by  the  night  and  loneliness,  faded 
a  little  from  his  blood.  She  demanded  a  great  deal 
—a  man  could  never  return.  He  bitterly  cursed  his 
indecision.  He  became  aware  of  a  pervading  weari- 
ness, a  stiffness  from  his  prolonged  contact  with  the 
earth,  and  he  rose,  moved  about.  His  legs  were  as 
rigid,  as  painful,  as  an  old  man's;  he  had  been  lean- 
ing on  his  elbow,  and  the  arm  was  dead  to  the 
fingers.  The  nerves  pricked  and  jerked  in  infini- 
tesimal fiery  agonies.  He  swung  his  arms,  stamped 
his  feet,  aiding  his  stagnating  circulation.  The  frogs 
ceased  their  complaint  abruptly;  the  concerted 
jangle  of  voices  in  the  grove  rose  and  fell.  The 
replenished  fires  poured  their  energy  over  the  broad 
bottoms  of  the  sap  kettles. 

The  night  faded. 

The  change,  at  first,  was  imperceptible:  as 
always,  the  easterly  mountains  grew  visible  against 
a  lighter  sky.  The  foliage  of  the  maples,  stripped 
of  the  looping  stars,  took  the  form  of  individual 
branches  brightening  from  black  to  green.  There 
was  a  stir  of  dim  figures  about  the  impatient  horses. 
Meta  Beggs  came  swiftly  to  him.  He  could  see  her 
face  plainly  now,  and  was  surprised  at  its  strained, 
anxious  expression.  Her  hand  closed  upon  his  arm, 
she  drew  him  to  her : 

'  Which  ?"  she  whispered. 

"  I  don't  know/'  he  dully  replied. 


220  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

"  Save  me,"  she  implored;  "  take  me  away/' 
She  whispered  maddeningly  in  his  ear,  summoning 
the  lust  within  him,  the  clamour  in  his  brain,  the 
throbbing  in  his  throat,  his  wrists.  He  shut  his 
eyes,  and,  when  he  opened  them,  the  dawn  had 
arrived.  It  forced  her  from  him.  Her  gown 
changed  to  vivid  red;  about  her  throat  the  graceful 
pearls  were  faintly  iridescent. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  repeated  wearily. 

Over  her  shoulder  he  saw  a  buggy  approaching 
across  the  grass.  It  was  disconcertingly  familiar, 
until  he  recognized,  beyond  any  doubt,  that  it  was 
his  own.  Sim,  he  assured  himself,  had  learned  of 
his  presence  at  the  sap-boiling,  and,  in  passing,  had 
stopped  to  fetch  him  home.  But  there  was  no  man 
in  the  buggy  .  .  .  only  two  women.  Meta  Beggs, 
intercepting  his  intent  gaze,  turned  and  followed  it 
to  its  goal  .  .  .  Gordon  saw  now  that  Mrs.  Caley 
was  driving,  and  by  her  side  .  .  .  Lettice  !  Lettice 
—riding  over  the  rough  field,  over  the  dark  stony 
roads,  when  now,  so  soon  ...  in  her  condition 
...  it  was  insanity.  Simeon  Caley 's  wife  should 
never  have  allowed  it. 

The  horse,  stolidly  walking  over  the  sod,  stopped 
before  them.  Mrs.  Caley  held  a  rein  in  either  hand ; 
her  head,  framed  in  a  rusty  black  bonnet  and  strings, 
was  as  dark,  as  immobile,  as  iron.  Lettice  gathered 
her  shawl  tightly  about  her  shoulders ;  she  had  on  a 
white  waist,  and  her  head  was  bare.  She  descended 
clumsily  from  the  buggy  and  walked  slowly  up  to 
Gordon.  Her  face  was  older  than  he  had  ever  seen 
it,  and  pinched;  in  one  hand  she  grasped  a  small 
pasteboard  box. 


XVIII 

GORDON  MAKIMMON  made  one  step  toward  her. 
Lettice  held  the  box  in  an  extended  hand : 

"  Gordon,"  she  asked,  "  what  was  this  for  ?  It 
was  in  the  clothes  press  last  evening :  it  couldn't  have 
been  there  long.  You  see — it's  a  little  jewellery 
box  from  the  post -office;  here  is  the  name  on  the  lid. 
Somehow,  Gordon,  finding  it  upset  me;  I  couldn't 
stop  till  I'd  seen  you  and  asked  you  about  it.  Some- 
how there  didn't  seem  to  be  any  time  to  lose.  I 
asked  for  you  last  night  in  the  village,  but  everybody 
had  gone  to  the  sap-boiling  ...  I  sat  up  all  night 
.  .  .  waiting  ...  I  couldn't  wait  any  longer,  Gor- 
don, somehow.  I  had  to  come  out  and  find  you, 
and  everybody  had  gone  to  the  sap-boiling, 

and 

'  Why,  Lettice,"  he  stammered,  more  discon- 
certed by  the  sudden  loss  of  youth  from  her 
countenance  than  by  her  words;  "  it  wasn't — wasn't 
much." 

'  What  was  it,  Gordon  ?"  she  insisted. 

Suddenly  he  was  unable  to  lie  to  her.  Her 
questioning  eyes  held  a  quality  that  dispelled  petty 
and  casual  subterfuges.  The  evasion  which  he 
summoned  to  his  lips  perished  silently. 

"  A  string  of  pearls,"  he  muttered. 

"  Why  did  you  crush  the  pretty  box  if  they  were 

221 


222  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

for — for  me  or  for  your  sister,  if  it  was  to  be  a 

surprise  ?     I  can't  understand 

'  It,  it  was— 

'  Who  were  they  for,  Gordon  ?" 

A  blundering  panic  swept  over  him ;  Lettice  was 
more  strange  than  familiar ;  she  was  unnatural ;  her 
hair  didn't  shine  in  the  sunlight  streaming  into  the 
shallow  green  basin;  in  the  midst  of  the  warm 
efflorescence  she  seemed  remote,  chill. 

"  For  her."     He  moved  his  head  toward  Meta 


She  withdrew  her  burning  gaze  from  Gordon 
Makimmon  and  turned  to  the  school-teacher. 

"  For  Miss  Beggs,"  she  repeated;  "  why  .  .  .  why, 
that's  bad,  Gordon.  You're  married  to  me;  I'm 
your  wife.  Miss  Beggs  oughtn't  .  .  .  she  isn't 
anything  to  you." 

Meta  Beggs  stood  motionless,  silent,  her  red 
cotton  dress  drawing  and  wrinkling  over  her 
rounded  shoulders  and  hips.  The  necklace  hung 
gracefully  about  the  slender  column  of  her  throat. 

The  two  women  standing  in  the  foreground  of 
Gordon  Makimmon 's  vision,  of  his  existence, 
summed  up  all  the  eternal  contrast,  the  struggle, 
in  the  feminine  heart.  And  they  summed  up  the 
duplicity,  the  weakness,  the  sensual  and  egotistical 
desires,  the  power  and  vanity  and  vain-longing,  of 
men. 

Meta  Beggs  was  the  mask,  smooth  and  sterile,  of 
the  hunger  for  adornment,  for  gold  bands  and 
jewels  and  perfume,  for  goffered  linen  and  draperies 
of  silk  and  scarlet.  She  was  the  naked  idler  stained 
with  antimony  in  the  clay  courts  of  Sumeria;  the 
Paphian  with  painted  feet  loitering  on  the  roofs  of 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  223 

Memphis  while  the  blocks  of  red  sandstone  floated 
sluggishly  down  the  Nile  for  the  pyramid  of  Khufu 
the  King;  she  was  the  flushed  voluptuousness 
relaxed  in  the  scented  spray  of  pagan  baths;  the 
woman  with  piled  and  white-powdered  hair  in  a 
gold  shift  of  Louis  XIV.;  the  prostitute  with  a 
pinched  waist  and  great  flowered  sleeves  of  the 
Maison  Doree.  She  was  as  old  as  the  first  vice,  as 
the  first  lust  budding  like  a  black  blossom  in  the 
morbidity  of  men  successful,  satiated. 

She  was  old,  but  Lettice  was  older. 

Lettice  was  more  ancient  than  men  walking 
cunning  and  erect,  than  the  lithe  life  of  sun-heated 
tangles,  than  the  vital  principle  of  flowering  plants 
fertilized  by  the  unerring  chance  of  vagrant  insects 
and  airs. 

Standing  in  the  flooding  blue  flame  of  day,  they 
opposed  to  each  other  the  forces  fatally  locked  in  the 
body  of  humanity.  Lettice,  with  her  unborn  child, 
her  youth  haggard  with  apprehension  and  pain,  the 
prefigurement  of  the  agony  of  birth,  gazed,  dumb 
and  bitter  in  her  sacrifice,  at  the  graceful  cold 
figure  that,  as  irrevocably  as  herself,  denied  all 
that  Lettice  affirmed,  desired  all  that  she  feared 
and  hated. 

'  Why,  that's  bad,  Gordon/'  she  reiterated.  "  Fm 
your  wife.  And  Miss  Beggs  is  bad,  I'm  certain  of 
that."  A  spasm  of  suffering  crossed  her  face  like  a 
cloud. 

'  You  ought  not  to  have  come,  Lettice.  Lettice, 
you  ought  not  to  have  come,"  he  told  her.  His  dull 
voice  reflected  the  lassitude  that  had  fallen  upon 
him,  the  sudden  death  of  all  emotion,  the  swift  ex- 
tinguishing of  his  interest  in  the  world  about  him ;  it 


224  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

reflected,  in  his  indifference  to  desire,  an  indifference 
to  Meta  Beggs. 

'  Do  you  love  her,  Gordon  ?"  his  wife  asked. 

"  No,  I  don't,"  he  answered,  perceptibly  im- 
patient at  the  question. 

'  Do  you  like  her  better  than  you  like  me  ?" 

The  palpable  answer  to  her  query,  that  he  thought 
of  himself  more  than  either,  evaded  him.  "  I  don't 
like  her  better  than  I  like  you,"  he  repeated  baldly. 

Lettice  turned  to  the  other  woman.  "  There's  not 
much  you  can  say,"  she  declared — "  caught  like 
this  trying  to  steal  somebody's  husband.  And  you 
set  over  a  school  of  children  !" 

"  I  don't  choose  to  be,"  Meta  Beggs  retorted.  '  I 
hate  it,  but  I  had  to  live.  If  you  hadn't  had  all  that 
money  to  keep  you  soft,  yes,  and  get  you  a  husband, 
you  would  have  had  to  fight  and  do,  too.  You  might 
have  been  teaching  a  roomful  of  little  sneaks,  and 
sick  to  death  of  it  before  ever  you  began  ...  or  you 
might  be  on  the  street — better  girls  have  than  you." 

"  And  you  bought  her  a  necklace,  Gordon, 
her- 

All  that  he  now  desired  was  to  get  Lettice  safely 
home.  Another  wave  of  pain  rose  whitely  over  her 
countenance .  ' '  Come  on ,  Lettice , ' '  he  urged ; ' '  j  ust 
step  into  the  buggy."  He  waved  toward  the 
vehicle,  toward  the  peacefully  grazing  horse,  Mrs. 
Caley  sitting  upright  and  sallow. 

"  And  take  him  right  along  with  you,"  Meta  Beggs 
added;  "  your  money's  tight  around  his  neck." 

Resentment  at  the  implied  ignominy  penetrated 
his  self-esteem. 

'  We're  going  right  on  now,  Lettice,"  he  con- 
tinued; "  we  must  drive  as  careful  as  possible." 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  225 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  want  you,"  his  wife 
articulated  slowly. 

'  You  can  decide  that  later/'  he  returned ;  "  we're 
going  home  first." 

She  relaxed  her  fingers  and  dropped  the  paste- 
board box  on  the  turf.  She  stood  with  her  arms 
hanging  limply,  breathing  in  sharp  inspirations. 
She  gazed  about  at  the  valley,  the  half-distant  maple 
grove :  suddenly  the  youth  momentarily  returned  to 
her,  the  frightened  expression  of  a  child  abruptly 
conscious  of  isolation  in  an  alien,  unexpected  setting. 

"  Gordon,"  she  said  rapidly,  "  I  had  to  come — 

find  you  .  .  .  something "    Her  voice  sharpened 

with  apprehension.  '  Tell  me  it  will  be  all  right. 
It  won't  .  .  .  kill  me."  She  stumbled  toward  him; 
he  caught  her  and  half  carried  her  to  the  buggy, 
where  he  lifted  her  over  the  step  and  into  the  seat. 
A  red-clad  arm  was  supporting  her  on  the  other 
side:  it  was  Meta  Beggs. 

'  You  drive,"  he  directed  Mrs.  Caley.  He  held 
Lett  ice  with  her  face  hidden  against  his  shoulder. 
The  valley  was  refulgent  with  early  summer,  the 
wheat  was  swelling  greenly,  the  meadows,  threaded 
by  shining  streams,  were  sown  with  flowers,  grazed 
by  herds  of  cattle  with  hides  like  satin,  the  pellucid 
air  was  filled  with  indefinite  birdsong.  The  buggy 
lurched  over  a  hillock  of  grass;  his  wife  shuddered 
in  his  arms,  and  an  unaccustomed,  vicarious  pain 
contracted  his  heart.  Where  the  fields  gave  upon 
the  road  the  buggy  dropped  sharply;  Lettice 
cried  out  uncontrollably.  He  cursed  Mrs.  Caley 
savagely  under  his  breath.  "  Can't  you  drive,"  he 
asked;  "  can't  you  ?" 

The  ascent  to  the  crown  of  the  ridge  was  rough, 

15 


226  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

but  beyond,  winding  down  to  the  Greenstream 
valley,  it  was  worse.  The  buggy,  badly; hitched, 
bumped  against  the  flank  of  the  horse,  twisted  over 
exposed  boulders,  brought  up  suddenly  in  the  gutters 
cut  diagonally  by  the  spring  torrents.  Gordon 
Makimmon  forgot  everything  else  in  the  sole  desire 
to  get  Lettice  safely  to  their  house.  He  en- 
deavoured, by  shifting  her  position,  to  reduce  the 
j  arring  of  the  uneven  progress .  He  realized  that  she 
was  in  a  continual  agony,  and,  in  that  new  ability  to 
share  it  through  the  dawning  consciousness  of  its 
brute  actuality  in  Lettice,  it  roused  in  him  an  impo- 
tent fury  of  rebellion.  It  took  the  form  of  an  in- 
creasing passion  of  anger  at  the  inanimate  stones  of 
the  road,  against  Mrs.  Caley's  meagre  profile  on  the 
dusty  hood  of  the  buggy.  He  whispered  enraged 
oaths,  worked  himself  into  an  insanity  of  temper. 
Lettice  grew  rigid  in  his  arms.  For  a  while  she 
iterated  dully,  like  the  beating  of  a  sluggish  heart, 
"  bad  .  .  .  bad  .  .  .  bad/'  Then  dread  wiped  all 
other  expression  from  her  face;  then,  again,  pain 
pinched  her  features. 

The  buggy  creaked  down  the  decline  to  their 
dwelling.  Gordon  supported  Lettice  to  their  room ; 
then  he  stood  on  the  porch  without,  waiting.  The 
rugged  horse,  still  hitched,  snatched  with  coarse, 
yellow  teeth  at  the  grass.  Suddenly  Mrs.  Caley 
appeared  at  a  door:  she  spoke,  breaking  the 
irascible  silence  of  months,  dispelling  the  ac- 
cumulating illwill  of  her  pent  resentment,  with 
hasty,  disjointed  words: 

"...  quick  as  you  can  .  .  .  the  doctor." 


XIX 

A  HOARSE,  thin  cry  sounded  from  within  the 
Makimmon  dwelling.  It  fluctuated  with  intoler- 
able pain  and  died  abruptly  away,  instantly  ab- 
sorbed in  the  brooding  calm  of  the  valley,  lost  in  the 
vast,  indifferent  serenity  of  noon.  But  its  echo  per- 
sisted in  Gordon's  thoughts  and  emotions.  He  was 
sitting  by  the  stream,  before  his  house ;  and,  as  the 
cry  had  risen,  he  had  moved  suddenly,  as  though  an 
invisible  hand  had  touched  him  upon  the  shoulder. 
He  sat  reflected  on  the  sliding  water  against  the 
reflection  of  the  far  blue  sky.  One  idea  ran  in  a 
circle  through  his  brain,  his  lips  formed  it  sound- 
lessly, he  even  spoke  it  aloud: 

'  It  ain't  as  though  I  had  gone,"  he  said. 

The  possible  consequence  to  Lettice  of  what  had 
been  a  mere  indecision  seemed  to  him  out  of  any 
proportion.  No,  he  thought,  I  wouldn't  have  gone 
when  the  time  came ;  when  the  minute  came  I'd  have 
held  back.  Then  again,  it  ain't  as  though  I  had 
gone.  A  species  of  surprise  alternated  with  resent- 
ment at  the  gravity  of  the  situation  which  had  re- 
sulted from  his  indiscreet  conduct ;  the  agony  of  that 
cry  from  within  the  house  was  too  deep  to  have  pro- 
ceeded from  ...  it  wasn't  as  though  he  had  gone 
...  he  wouldn't  have  gone,  anyway. 

He  heard  footsteps  on  the  porch,  and  turned, 

227 


228  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

recognizing  Doctor  Pelliter.  He  half  rose  to  go  to 
the  other  with  an  inquiry;  but  he  dropped  quickly 
back  on  the  bank,  looked  away.  Some  time  before, 
the  doctor  had  tied  a  towel  about  his  waist  ...  it 
had  been  a  white  towel. 

His  mind  returned  to  Lettice  and  the  terrible 
mischance  that  had  been  brought  upon  her ;  that  he 
had  brought  on  her.  He  tested  the  latter  clause, 
and  attempted  to  reject  it:  he  had  done  nothing  to 
provoke  such  a  terrible  actuality.  He  rehearsed  the 
entire  chain  of  events  which  had  resulted  in  the  pur- 
chase of  the  pearl  necklace;  he  followed  it  as  far 
back  as  the  evening  when,  from  the  minister's  lawn, 
he  had  seen  Meta  Beggs  undressing  at  her  window. 
He  could  nowhere  discover  any  desperate  wrong 
committed.  He  knew  men,  plenty  of  them,  who 
were  actually  unfaithful  to  their  wives :  he  had  done 
nothing  of  that  sort.  He  endeavoured  to  grow  in- 
furiated with  Meta  Beggs,  then  with  Mrs.  Caley;  he 
endeavoured  to  place  upon  them  the  responsibility 
for  that  attenuated,  agonized  sound  from  the  house ; 
but  without  success.  He  had  made  a  terrible 
blunder.  But,  in  a  universe  where  the  slightest 
fairness  ruled,  he  and  not  Lettice  would  pay  for  an 
error  purely  his  own. 

Lettice  was  so  young,  he  realized  suddenly. 

He  recalled  her  as  she  sat  alone,  under  the  lamp, 
with  her  shawl  about  her  shuddering  shoulders,  wait- 
ing for  the  inevitable,  begging  him  to  assure  her  that 
it  would  be  all  right.  It  would,  of  course,  be  all 
right  in  the  end.  It  must !  Then  things  would  be 
different.  He  made  himself  no  extravagant 
promises  of  reform,  no  fevered  reproaches;  but 
things  would  be  different.  He  would  take  Lettice 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  229 

driving;  he  had  the  prettiest  young  wife  in  Green- 
stream,  and  he  would  show  people  that  he  realized 
it.  She  had  been  Lettice  Hollidew,  the  daughter  of 
old  Pompey,  the  richest  man  in  the  county. 

The  importance  of  that  latter  fact  had  dimmed; 
the  omnipotence  of  money  had  dwindled:  for  in- 
stance, any  conceivable  sum  would  be  powerless  to 
still  that  cry  from  within.  In  a  way  it  had  risen 
from  the  very  fact  of  Pompey  Hollidew 's  fortune— 
Meta  Beggs  would  never  have  considered  him  aside 
from  it.  He  endeavoured  to  curse  the  old  man's 
successful  avarice,  but  without  any  satisfaction. 
Every  cause  contributing  to  the  present  impending 
catastrophe  led  directly  back  to  himself,  to  his  in- 
decision. The  responsibility,  closing  about  him, 
seemed  to  shut  out  the  air  from  his  vicinity,  to  make 
laboured  his  breathing.  He  put  out  a  hand,  as 
though  to  ward  off  the  inimical  forces  everywhere 
pressing  upon  him.  He  had  seen  suffering  before 
—what  man  had  not  ? — but  this  was  different;  this 
unsettled  the  foundations  of  his  being ;  it  found  him 
vulnerable  where  he  had  never  been  vulnerable  be- 
fore; he  shrunk  from  it  as  he  would  shrink  from 
touching  a  white-hot  surface.  He  was  afraid 
of  it. 

He  thought  of  the  ghastly  activities  inside  the 
house;  they  haunted  him  in  confused,  horrid  details 
amid  which  Lettice  suffered  and  cried  out. 

He  was  unaware  of  the  day  wheeling  splendidly 
through  its  golden  hours,  of  the  sun  swinging  across 
the  narrow  rift  of  the  valley.  At  long  intervals  he 
heard  muffled  hoof -beats  passing  on  the  dusty  road 
above.  He  watched  a  trout  slip  lazily  out  from 
under  the  bank  and  lie  headed  upstream,  slowly 


230  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

waving  its  fins.  It  recalled  the  trout  he  had  left  on 
the  porch  of  Hollidew's  farmhouse  on  the  night  when 
he  had  attempted  to  ...  seduce  .  .  .  Lettice  ! 

The  details  of  that  occasion  returned,  vivid,  com- 
plete, unsparing.  It  was  a  memory  profoundly 
regrettable  because  of  an  obscure  connection  with 
Lettice 's  present  danger;  it  too — although  he  was 
unable  to  discover  why  it  should — took  on  the  dark 
aspect  of  having  helped  to  bring  the  other  about. 
As  the  memory  of  that  night  recurred  to  him  he 
became  conscious  of  an  obscure,  traitorous  force 
lurking  within  him,  betraying  him,  leading  his  com- 
placency into  foolish  and  fatal  paths,  into  paths 
which  totally  misrepresented  him.  .  .  .  He  would 
not  really  have  gone  away  with  Meta  Beggs. 

He  was  a  1  !  t:-r  man  than  all  this  would  indicate  ! 
Yet — consid  "le  result;  he  might  as  well  have 
committed  a  foul  crime.  But,  in  the  end,  it  would 
be  all  right.  Doctors  always  predicted  the  darkest 
possibilities. 

He  turned  and  saw  Doctor  Pelliter  striding  up  the 
slope  to  where  his  team  was  hitched  on  the  public 
road.  A  swift  resentment  swept  over  Gordon 
Makimmon  as  he  realized  that  the  other  had 
purposely  avoided  him.  He  rose  to  demand  at- 
tention, to  call;  but,  instinctively,  he  stifled  his 
voice.  The  doctor  stopped  at  the  road,  and  saw 
him.  Gordon  waved  toward  the  house,  and  the 
other  nodded  curtly. 


XX 

HE  passed  through  the  dining-room  to  the  inner 
doorway,  where  he  brushed  by  Mrs .  Caley .  Her  face 
was  as  harsh  and  twisted  as  an  old  root.  He 
proceeded  directly  to  the  bed. 

"  Lettice,"  he  said;  "  Lettice." 

Then  he  saw  the  appalling  futility  of  addressing 
that  familiar  name  to  the  strange  head  on  the 
pillow. 

Lettice  had  gone:  she  had  been  destroyed  as 
utterly  as  though  a  sinister  and  ruthless  magic  had 
blasted  every  infinitesimal  quality  that  had  been 
hers.  A  countenance  the  colour  of  glazed  white 
paper  seemed  to  hold  pools  of  ink  in  the  hollows  of 
its  eyes.  The  drawn  mouth  was  the  colour  of  stale 
milk.  Nothing  remained  to  summon  either  pity  or 
sorrow.  The  only  possible  emotion  in  the  face  of 
that  revolting  human  disaster  was  an  incredulous 
and  shocked  surprise.  It  struck  like  a  terrible  jest, 
a  terrible,  icy  reminder,  into  the  forgetful  warmth  of 
living;  it  mocked  at  the  supposed  majesty  of 
suffering,  tore  aside  the  assumed  dignity,  the 
domination,  of  men;  it  tampered  ferociously  with 
the  beauty,  the  pride,  the  innocent  and  gracious 
pretensions,  of  youth,  of  women. 

Gordon  Makimmon  was  conscious  of  an  over- 
whelming desire  to  flee  from  the  white  grimace  on 

231 


232  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

the  bed  that  had  been  Lettice's  and  his.  He  drew 
back,  in  a  momentary  abject,  shameful,  cowardice; 
then  he  forced  himself  to  return.  .  .  .  The  fleering 
lips  quivered,  there  was  a  slight  stir  under  the 
counterpane.  A  little  sound  gathered,  shaped  into 
words  barely  audible  in  the  stillness  of  the  room 
broken  only  by  Gordon's  breathing: 

"It's  .  .  .  too  much.  Not  any  more  .  .  .  hurt- 
ing. Oh  !  I  can't- 

He  found  a  chair,  and  sat  down  by  her  side.  The 
palms  of  his  hands  were  wet,  and  he  wiped  them 
upon  his  knees.  His  fear  of  the  supine  figure  grew, 
destroying  the  arrogance  of  his  manhood,  his 
sentient  reason.  He  was  afraid  of  what  it  in- 
timated, threatened,  for  himself,  and  of  its  insup- 
portable mockery.  He  felt  as  an  animal  might  feel, 
cornered  by  a  hugely  grim  and  playful  cruelty. 

The  westering  sun  fell  through  a  window  on  the 
disordered  huddle  of  Lettice's  hastily  discarded 
clothes  streaming  from  a  chair  to  the  floor — her 
stockings,  her  chemise  threaded  with  a  narrow  blue 
ribband.  His  thoughts  turned  to  the  little  white 
garments  she  had  fashioned  in  vain. 

It  had  been  wonderfully  comfortable  in  the 
evening  in  the  sitting-room  with  Lettice  sewing.  He 
recalled  the  time  when  he  had  first  played  the  phono- 
graph in  order  to  hear  the  dog  "  sing."  Lettice  had 
cried  out,  imploring  him  to  stop;  well — he  had 
stopped,  hadn't  he  ?  The  delayed  realization  of 
her  patience  of  misery  rankled  like  a  barb.  The 
wandering  thoughts  returned  to  the  long  fabrica- 
tion he  had  told  her  of  the  loss  of  his  money  in 
Stenton,  of  the  fictitious  agent  of  hardware.  He  had 
snared  the  girl  in  a  net  of  such  lies;  scornful  of 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  233 

Lettice's  innocence,  her  "  stupid  "  trust,  he  had 
brought  her  to  this  ruinous  pass.  It  hadn't  been 
necessary. 

The  window  was  open,  and  a  breath  of  early 
summer  drifted  in — a  breath  of  palpable  sweetness. 
Mrs.  Caley  entered  and  bent  over  the  bed,  an 
angular  black  silhouette  against  the  white.  She 
went  without  a  word. 

If  Lettice  died,  he,  Gordon  Makimmon,  would 
have  killed  her,  he  had  killed  more  ...  he  recog- 
nized that  clearly.  The  knowledge  spread  through 
him  like  a  virus,  thinning  his  blood,  attacking  his 
brain,  his  nerves.  He  lifted  a  shaking  hand  to  wipe 
his  brow ;  and,  for  a  brief  space,  his  arm  remained  in 
air;  it  looked  as  though  he  were  gazing  beneath  a 
shielding  palm  at  a  far  prospect.  The  arm  dropped 
suddenly  to  his  side,  the  fingers  struck  dully  against 
the  chair.  He  heard  again  the  muffled  beat  of 
horses'  hoofs  on  the  road  above;  the  sun  moved 
slowly  over  the  narrow  gay  strips  of  rag  carpet  on 
the  floor:  life  went  on  elsewhere. 

His  fear  changed  to  loathing,  to  absolute  sick  re- 
pulsion from  all  the  facts  of  his  existence.  With 
the  passing  minutes  the  lines  deepened  on  his  hag- 
gard countenance,  his  expression  perceptibly  aged. 
The  stubble  of  beard  that  had  grown  since  the  day 
before  grizzled  his  lean  jaw;  the  confident  line  of 
his  shoulders,  of  his  back,  was  bowed. 

He  looked  up  with  a  start  to  find  the  doctor  once 
more  in  the  room.  He  rose.  "  Doc,"  he  asked  in 
a  strained  whisper,  "  Doc,  will  it  be  all  right  ?"  He 
wet  his  lips.  "  Will  she  live  ? " 

'  You  needn't  whisper,"  the  other  told  him;  "  she 
doesn't  know  .      .  now.    '  Will  she  live  ?'    I  can 


234  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

only  tell  you  that  she  wanted  to  die  a  thousand 
times." 

Gordon  turned  away,  looking  out  through  the 
window.  It  gave  upon  the  slope  planted  with  corn ; 
the  vivid  green  shoots  everywhere  pushed  through 
the  chocolate-coloured  soil;  chickens  were  vigor- 
ously scratching  in  a  corner.  The  shadow  of  the  west 
range  reached  down  and  enfolded  the  Makimmon 
dwelling;  the  sky  burned  in  a  sulphur -yellow  flame. 
When  he  turned  the  doctor  had  vanished,  the  room 
had  grown  dusky.  He  resumed  his  seat. 

"  I  didn't  do  right,"  he  acknowledged  to  the 
travesty  on  the  bed;  "  there  was  a  good  bit  I  didn't 
get  the  hang  of.  It  seems  like  I  hadn't  learned  any- 
thing at  all  from  being  alive.  I'm  going  to  fix  it 
up,"  he  proceeded,  painfully  earnest.  "  Tin- 
He  broke  off  suddenly  at  the  stabbing  memory  of 
the  doctor's  words,  "  She  wanted  to  die  a  thousand 
times."  He  thought,  I've  killed  her  a  thousand 
times  already.  The  fear  plucked  at  his  throat.  He 
rose  and  walked  unsteadily  to  the  door  and  out  upon 
the  porch. 

The  evening  drew  its  gauze  over  the  valley,  the 
shrill,  tenuous  chorus  of  insects  had  begun  for  the 
night,  the  gold  caps  were  dissolving  from  the  eastern 
peaks.  He  saw  Simeon  Caley  at  the  stable  door; 
Sim  avoided  him,  moving  behind  a  corner  of  the 
shed.  His  pending  sense  of  blood-guiltiness  deep- 
ened. The  impulse  returned  to  flee,  to  vanish  in  the 
engulfing  wild  of  the  mountains.  But  he  realized 
vaguely  that  that  from  which  he  longed  to  escape 
lay  within  him;  he  should  carry  it — the  memories 
woven  inexplicably  of  past  and  present,  dominated 
by  this  last  unforgettable  spectre  on  the  bed — into 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  235 

the  woods,  the  high,  lonely  clearings,  the  still  valleys. 
It  was  not  remorse  now,  it  was  not  simple  fear,  but 
the  old  oppression,  increased  a  thousandfold. 

He  sat  in  the  low  rocking  chair  that  had  held 
his  mother  and  Clare,  and,  only  yesterday,  Lettice, 
and  its  rockers  made  their  familiar  tracking  sound 
over  the  uneven  boards  of  the  porch.  At  this  hour 
there  was  usually  a  stir  and  smell  of  cooking  from 
the  kitchen ;  but  now  the  kitchen  window  was  blank 
and  still.  Darkness  gathered  slowly  about  him;  it 
obscured  the  black  and  white  check,  the  red  thread, 
of  his  suit ;  it  flowed  in  about  him  and  reduced  him 
to  the  common  greyness  of  the  porch,  the  sod,  the 
stream .  It  changed  him  from  a  man  with  a  puzzled, 
seamed  visage  into  a  man  with  no  especial  percep- 
tible features,  and  then  into  a  shadow,  an  inconse- 
quential blur  less  important  than  the  supports  for 
the  wooden  covering  above. 


XXI 

AFTER  a  while  he  rose,  impelled  once  more  within. 
A  lamp  had  been  lit  in  the  bedroom,  and,  in  its 
radiance,  the  countenance  on  the  pillow  glistened 
like  the  skin  of  a  lemon.  As  before,  Mrs.  Caley  left 
the  room  as  he  entered;  and  he  thought  that,  as  she 
passed  him,  she  snarled  like  an  animal. 

He  sat  bowed  by  the  bed.  A  moth  perished  in 
the  flame  of  the  lamp,  and  the  light  flickered  through 
the  room — it  seemed  that  Lettice  grimaced,  but  it 
was  only  the  other.  Her  face  had  grown  sharper : 
it  was  such  a  travesty  of  her  that,  somehow,  he 
ceased  to  associate  it  with  Lettice  at  all.  Instead 
he  began  to  think  of  it  as  something  exclusively  of 
his  own  making — it  was  what  he  had  done  with 
things,  with  life. 

The  sheet  lay  over  the  motionless  body  like  a  thin 
covering  of  snow  on  the  turnings  of  the  earth;  it 
defined  her  breasts  and  a  hip  as  crisply  as  though 
they  were  cut  in  marble  effigy  on  a  tomb  of  youthful 
dissolution.  He  followed  the  impress  of  an  arm  to 
the  hand,  and,  leaning  forward,  touched  it.  A 
coldness  seemed  to  come  through  the  cover  to  his 
fingers.  He  let  his  hand  stay  upon  hers — perhaps 
the  warmth  would  flow  back  into  the  cold  arm,  the 
chill  heart;  perhaps  he  could  give  her  some  of  his 
vitality.  The  possibility  afforded  him  a  meagre 

236 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  237 

comfort,  instilled  a  faint  glow  into  his  benumbed 
being.  His  hand  closed  upon  that  covered  by  the 
linen  like  a  shroud.  He  sat  rigid,  concentrated,  in 
his  effort,  his  purpose.  The  light  flickered  again 
from  the  fiery  perishing  of  a  second  moth. 

A  strange  feeling  crept  over  him,  a  deepened  sense 
of  suspense,  of  imminence.  He  fingered  his  throat, 
and  his  hand  was  icy  where  it  touched  his  burning 
face.  He  stood  up  in  an  increasing  nameless 
disturbance. 

A  faint  spasm  crossed  the  drained  countenance 
beneath  him;  the  mouth  fell  open. 

He  knew  suddenly  that  Lettice  was  dead. 

There  her  clothes  lay  strewn  on  the  chair  and 
floor — the  long,  black  stockings  and  the  rumpled 
chemise  strung  with  narrow  blue  ribband.  She  had 
worn  them  on  her  warm  young  body;  she  had  tied 
the  ribband  in  the  morning  and  untied  it  at  night, 
untied  it  at  night  ...  it  was  night  now. 

A  slow,  exhausted  deliberation  of  mind  and  act 
took  the  place  of  his  late  panic.  He  smoothed  the 
sheet  where  he  had  grasped  her  hand  in  the  futile 
endeavour  to  instill  into  her  some  of  his  warmth. 
He  gazed  at  her  for  a  moment,  at  the  shadows  like 
pools  of  ink  poured  into  the  caverns  of  her  eyes,  at 
a  glint  of  teeth  no  whiter  than  the  rest,  at  the  dark 
plait  of  her  hair  lying  sinuously  over  the  pillow. 
Then  he  went  to  the  door : 

"  Mrs.  Caley,"  he  pronounced.  The  woman  ap- 
peared in  the  doorway  from  the  kitchen.  "  Mrs. 
Caley,"  he  repeated,  "  Lettice  is  dead." 

She  started  forward  with  a  convulsive  gasp,  and 
he  turned  aside  and  walked  heavily  out  on  to  the 
porch.  He  stood  for  a  moment  gazing  absently  into 


238  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

the  darkened  valley,  at  the  few  lights  of  Greenstream 
village,  the  stars  like  clusters  of  silver  grapes 
on  high,  ultra-blue  arbours.  The  whippoorwills 
throbbed  from  beyond  the  stream,  the  stream  itself 
whispered  in  a  pervasive  monotone.  The  first 
George  Gordon  MacKimmon,  resting  on  the  porch 
of  his  new  house  isolated  in  the  alien  wild,  had  heard 
the  whippoorwills  and  the  stream.  Gordon's  father 
had  heard  them  just  as  he,  the  present  Makimmon, 
heard  them  sounding  in  the  night.  But  no  other 
Makimmon  would  ever  listen  to  the  persistent 
birds,  the  eternal  whisper  of  the  water,  because  he, 
the  last,  had  killed  his  wife  ...  he  had  killed 
their  child. 

He  trod  down  the  creaking  steps  to  the  soft, 
fragrant  sod  and  made  his  way  to  where  a  thread  of 
light  outlined  the  stable  door.  Sim  was  seated  on 
a  box,  the  lantern  at  his  feet  casting  a  pale  flicker 
over  his  riven  face  and  the  horse  muzzling  the 
trough.  Gordon  sat  down  upon  the  broken  chair. 

"  She's  dead,"  he  said,  after  a  minute.  Simeon 
Caley  made  no  immediate  reply,  and  he  repeated  hi 
exactly  the  same  manner : 

"  She's  dead." 

A  sudden  bitterness  of  contempt  flamed  in  the 
other's  ineffable  blue  eyes.  "  God  damn  you  to 
hell !"  he  exclaimed;  "  now  you  got  the  money  and 
nothing  to  hinder  you." 

His  resentment  vanished  as  quickly  as  it  had  ap- 
peared. He  rose  and  picked  up  the  lantern,  and 
with  their  puny  illumination  they  went  out  together 
into  the  dark. 


PART  III 


ON  an  afternoon  of  the  second  autumn  following 
Lettice's  death  Gordon  was  fetching  home  a  head- 
stall resewn  by  Peterman.  The  latter,  in  a  small 
shed  filled  with  the  penetrating  odour  of  dressed 
leather  at  the  back  of  the  hotel,  exercised  the  ad- 
ditional trade  of  saddler.  General  Jackson  ambled 
at  Gordon's  heel. 

The  dog  had  grown  until  his  shoulder  reached 
the  man's  knee ;  he  was  compact  and  powerful,  with 
a  long,  heavy  jaw  and  pronounced  grave  whiskers; 
the  wheaten  colour  of  his  legs  and  head  had 
lightened,  sharply  defining  the  coarse  black  hair 
upon  his  back. 

October  was  drawing  to  a  close :  the  autumn  had 
been  dry,  and  the  foliage  was  not  brilliantly 
coloured,  but  exhibited  a  single  shade  of  dusty 
brown  that,  in  the  sun,  took  the  sombre  gleams  of 
clouded  gold.  It  was  warm  still,  but  a  furtive  wind, 
stirring  the  dead  leaves  uneasily  over  the  ground, 
was  momentarily  ominous,  chill. 

The  limp  rim  of  a  felt  hat  obscured  Gordon's 
features,  out  of  the  shadow  of  which  protruded 
his  lean,  sharp  chin.  His  heavy  shoes,  hastily 
scraped  of  mud,  bore  long  cuts  across  the  heels, 
and  shapeless  trousers,  a  coat  with  gaping  pockets, 
hung  loosely  about  his  thin  body  and  bowed 

241  16 


242  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

shoulders.  He  passed  the  idlers  before  the  office  of 
the  Bugle  with  a  scarcely  perceptible  nod;  but, 
farther  on,  he  stopped  before  a  solitary  figure 
advancing  over  the  narrow  footway. 

It  was  Buckley  Simmons.  He  was  noticeably 
smaller  since  his  injury  at  the  camp  meeting;  he  had 
shrivelled;  his  face  was  peaked  and  wrinkled  like 
the  face  of  a  very  old  man;  the  shadows  in  the 
sunken  cheeks  did  not  resemble  those  on  living 
skin,  but  were  dry  and  dusty  like  the  autumn  leaves. 
His  gaze  was  fixed  upon  the  ground  at  his  feet;  but, 
as  he  drew  up  to  Gordon,  he  raised  his  head. 

Into  the  dullness  of  his  eyes,  his  slack  lips,  crept  a 
dim  recognition ;  among  the  ashes  of  his  conscious- 
ness a  spark  glowed — a  single  live  coal  of  bitter 
hate. 

'  How  are  you,  Buckley  ?"  Gordon  pronounced 
slowly. 

The  other's  hands  clenched  as  the  wave  of 
emotion  crossed  the  blank  countenance.  Then  the 
hands  relaxed,  the  face  was  again  empty.  He 
continued,  oblivious  of  Gordon's  salutation,  of  his 
presence,  upon  his  way. 

Gordon  Makimmon  stood  for  a  moment  gazing 
after  him.  Then,  as  he  turned,  he  saw  that  there 
was  a  small  group  of  men  on  the  Courthouse  lawn; 
he  saw  the  sheriff  standing  facing  them  from  the 
steps,  gesticulating. 


II 

THE  purpose  of  this  gathering  was  instantly 
evident  to  him;  it  stirred  obscure  memories  into 
being.  A  property  was  being  publicly  sold  for 
debt. 

The  trooping  thoughts  of  the  past  filled  his  mind ; 
thoughts,  it  seemed  to  him,  of  another  than  himself. 
Surely  it  had  been  another  Gordon  Makimmon  that, 
sitting  before  the  Bugle  office,  had  heard  the  sheriff 
enumerating  the  scant  properties  of  the  old  freehold 
by  the  stream  to  satisfy  the  insatiable  greed  of 
Valentine  Simmons.  It  had  been  a  younger  man 
than  himself  by  fifteen  years.  Yet,  actually,  it  had 
been  scarcely  more  than  three  years  since  the  store- 
keeper had  had  him  sold  out. 

That  other  Makimmon  had  been  a  man  of 
incredibly  vivid  interests  and  emotions.  Now  it 
appeared  to  him  that,  in  all  the  world,  there  was 
not  a  cause  for  feeling,  not  an  incentive  to  rouse  the 
mind  from  apathy. 

Stray  periods  reached  him  from  the  sheriff's  re- 
counting of  a  "  highly  desirable  piece  of  property." 
His  loud,  flat  voice  had  not  changed  by  an  inflection 
since  he  had  "called  out"  Gordon's  home;  the 
merely  curious  or  materially  interested  onlookers 
were  the  same,  the  dragging  bidding  had,  appar- 

243 


244  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

ently,  continued  unbroken  from  the  other  occasion. 
The  dun,  identical  repetition  added  to  the  over- 
whelming sense  of  universal  monotony  in  Gordon 
Makimmon's  brain.  He  turned  at  the  corner,  by 
Simmons 's  store,  while  the  memories  faded;  the 
customary  greyness,  like  a  formless  drift  of  cloud 
obscuring  a  mountain  height,  once  more  descended 
upon  him. 

At  the  back  of  the  store  a  small  open  space  was 
filled  with  broken  crates,  straw,  and  boxes — the 
debris  of  unpacking.  And  there  he  saw  a  youthful 
woman  sitting  with  her  head  turned  partially  from 
the  road.  As  he  passed  a  suppressed  sob  shook  her. 
It  captured  his  attention,  and,  with  a  slight,  in- 
voluntary gasp,  he  saw  her  face.  The  memories 
returned  in  a  tumultuous,  dark  tide — she  reminded 
him  vividly  of  Lettice.  It  was  in  the  young  curve 
of  her  cheeks,  the  blue  of  her  eyes,  and  a  same- 
ness of  rounded  proportions,  that  the  resemblance 
lay. 

He  stopped,  without  formulated  reason,  and  in 
spite  of  her  obvious  desire  for  him  to  proceed. 

"  It's  hardly  fit  to  sit  here  and  cry  before  the 
whole  County/'  he  observed. 

"  The  whole  County  knows,"  she  returned  in  the 
egotism  of  youthful  misery. 

Her  voice,  too,  was  like  Lettice 's — sweet  with 
the  premonition  of  the  querulous  note  that, 
Rutherford  Berry  had  once  said,  distinguished  all 
good  women. 

A  sudden  intuition  directed  his  gaze  upon  the 
Courthouse  lawn. 

"  They're  selling  you  out/'  he  hazarded,  "  for 
debt."  ' 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  245 

She  nodded,  with  trembling  lips.  "  Cannon  is," 
she  specified. 

Cannon  was  the  storekeeper  for  whom  his  brother- 
in-law  clerked.  He  thought  again,  how  mono- 
tonous, how  everlastingly  alike,  life  was.  '  You 
just  let  the  amount  run  on  and  on,"  he  continued; 
''  you  got  this  and  that.  Then,  suddenly,  Cannon 
wanted  his  money." 

Her  eyes  opened  widely  at  his  prescience.  "  But 
there  was  sickness  too,"  she  added;  "the  baby 
died." 

"  Ah  !"  Gordon  said  curtly.  The  lines  in  his  worn 
face  deepened,  his  mouth  was  inscrutable. 

11  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that,"  she  confided,  "  we 
could  have  got  through.  Everything  had  started 
fine.  Alexander's  father  had  left  him  the  place: 
there  isn't  a  better  in  the  Bottom.  Alexander  says 
Mr.  Cannon  has  always  wanted  it.  Now  .  .  . 
now  ..."  Her  blue  gaze  blurred  with  slow 
tears. 

Her  similarity  to  Lettice  grew  still  more  apparent 
— she  presented  the  same  order,  her  white  shirt- 
waist had  been  crisply  ironed,  her  shoes  were  rubbed 
bright  and  neatly  tied.  He  recalled  this  similitude 
suddenly,  and  it  brought  before  him  a  clearly 
defined  vision  of  Lettice,  not  as  his  wife,  but  as  the 
girl  he  had  driven  to  and  from  the  school  at  Stenton. 
He  had  not  thought  of  that  Lettice  for  months,  for 
three  years ;  not  since  before  she  had  died ;  not,  he 
corrected  himself  drearily,  since  he  had  killed  her. 
He  had  remembered  the  last  phase,  of  the  glazed 
and  bloodless  travesty  of  her  youth.  But  even 
that  had  lately  been  lost  in  the  fog  of  nothingness 
settling  down  upon  him. 


246  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

And  now  this  girl,  on  a  box  behind  Simmons's 
store,  brought  the  buried  memories  back  into  light. 
They  disconcerted  him,  sweeping  through  the  lassi- 
tude of  his  mind;  they  stirred  shadowy  spectres  of 
fear.  .  .  .  The  voice  of  the  sheriff  carried  to 
them,  describing  the  excellent  repair  of  incidental 
sheds. 

"  I  nailed  all  the  tar-paper  on  the — the  chicken 
house,"  she  told  him  in  a  fresh  accession  of  unhap- 
piness,  the  tears  spilling  over  her  round  flushed 
cheeks. 

It  annoyed  him  to  see  her  cry:  it  was  as  though 
Lettice  was  suffering  again  from  old  misery.  His 
irritation  grew  at  this  seeming  renewal  of  what  had 
gone;  it  assumed  the  aspect  of  an  intentional  re- 
proach, of  Lettice  returned  to  bother  him  with  her 
pain  and  death.  He  turned  sharply  to  continue  on 
his  way.  But,  almost  immediately,  he  stopped. 

'  Your  name  ?"  he  demanded. 

"  Adelaide  Crandall." 

The  Crandalls,  he  knew,  were  a  reputable  family 
living  in  the  valley  bottom  east  of  Greenstream 
village.  Matthew  Crandall  had  died  a  few  years 
before,  and,  as  this  girl  had  indicated,  had  left  a 
substantial  farm  to  each  of  his  sons.  Cannon 
would  get  this  one  and,  it  was  more  than  probable, 
the  others. 

The  old  enmity  against  Valentine  Simmons, 
directed  at  Cannon,  flamed  afresh.  Simmons  or  the 
other — what  did  the  name  matter  ?  they  were  the 
same,  a  figurative  apple  press  crushing  the  juice  out 
of  the  country,  leaving  but  a  mash  of  hopes  and 
lives.  He  stood  irresolute,  while  Adelaide  Crandall 
fought  to  control  her  emotions. 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  247 

The  badgering  voice  of  the  sheriff  sounded  again 
on  his  hearing.  He  crossed  the  road,  pushed  open 
the  grinding  ^iron  gate  of  the  fence  that  enclosed  the 
Courthouse  lawn,  and  made  his  way  through  the 
sere  fallen  leaves  to  the  steps. 


Ill 

"  TWENTY-SEVEN  hundred  and  ninety  dollars,"  the 
sheriff  reiterated;  "  only  twenty-seven  ninety  .  .  . 
this  fine  bottom  land,  all  cleared  and  buildings  in 
best  repair.  Going!  Going!" 

'  Three  thousand,"  a  man  called  from  the  group 
facing  the  columned  portico. 

'''  Three  thousand  !  Three  thousand  !  Sale  must 
be  made.  Going— 

"  Thirty-one  hundred,"  Gordon  pronounced 
abruptly. 

A  stir  of  renewed  interest  animated  the  sale. 
Gordon  heard  his  name  pronounced  in  accents  of 
surprise.  He  was  surprised  at  himself:  his  bid  had 
been  unpremeditated — it  had  leaped  like  a  flash  of 
ignited  powder  out  of  the  resurrected  enmity  to 
Valentine  Simmons,  out  of  the  memories  stirred  by 
the  figure  that  resembled  Lettice. 

The    sheriff    immediately    took    up    his    bid. 
'  Thirty-one  hundred!  thirty-one,  gentlemen ;  only 
thirty-one  for  this  fine  bottom  land,  all  cleared— 

There  was  a  prolonged  pause  in  the  bidding, 
during  which  even  the  auctioneer  grew  apathetic. 
He  repeated  the  assertion  that  the  buildings  were 
in  the  best  repair;  then,  abruptly,  concluded  the 
sale.  Gordon  had  purchased  the  farm  for  thirty- 
one  hundred  dollars. 

248 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  249 

He  despatched,  in  the  Courthouse,  the  necessary 
formalities.  When  he  emerged  the  group  on  the 
lawn  had  dwindled  to  three  people  conversing  in- 
tently. A  young  man  with  heavy  shoulders 
already  bowed,  clad  in  unaccustomed,  stiff  best 
clothes,  advanced  to  meet  him. 

"Mr.  Makimmon,"  he  began;  "you  got  my 
place.  .  .  .  There's  none  better.  Fve  put  a  lot  of 
work  into  it.  Ill — 111  get  my  things  out  soon's  I 
can.  If  you  can  give  me  some  time,  my  wife " 

"  I  can  give  you  a  life,"  Gordon  replied  brusquely. 
He  walked  past  Alexander  Crandall  to  his  wife. 
She  turned  her  face  from  him.  He  said: 

'  You  go  back  to  the  Bottom.  I've  fixed  Cannon 
.  .  .  this  time.  Tell  your  husband  he  can  pay  me 
when  it  suits;  the  place  is  yours."  He  swung  on 
his  heel  and  strode  away. 


IV 

THE  fitful  wind  had,  apparently,  driven  the  warmth, 
the  sun,  from  the  earth.  The  mountains  rose 
starkly  to  the  slaty  sky. 

Gordon  Makimmon  lighted  a  lamp  in  the  dining 
room  of  his  dwelling.  The  table  still  bore  a  red 
fringed  cloth,  but  was  bare  of  all  else  save  the 
castor,  most  of  the  rings  of  which  were  empty.  The 
room  had  a  forlorn  appearance,  there  was  dust 
everywhere;  Gordon  had  pitched  the  headstall  into 
a  corner,  where  it  lay  upon  a  miscellaneous,  untidy 
pile. 

"  I  reckon  you  want  something  to  eat,"  he  ob- 
served to  G  eneral  Jackson .  He  proceeded ,  followed 
by  the  dog ,  to  the  kitchen .  It  revealed  an  appalling 
disorder:  the  stove  was  spotted  with  grease,  grey 
with  settled  ashes ;  a  pile  of  ashes  and  broken  china 
rose  beyond;  on  the  other  side  coal  and  wood  had 
been  carelessly  stored.  A  table  was  laden  with 
unwashed  dishes,  unsavoury  pots,  crusted  pans. 

Gordon  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  a  lamp 
in  his  hand,  surveying  the  repellent  confusion.  It 
had  accumulated  without  attracting  his  notice ;  but 
now,  suddenly  detached  from  the  aimless  procession 
of  the  past  months,  it  was  palpable  to  him,  unendur- 
able. '  It's  not  fit  for  a  dog,"  he  pronounced. 

An  expression  of  determination  settled  on  his 
250 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  251 

seamed  countenance ;  he  took  oft'  ids  coat  and  hung 
it  on  a  peg  in  the  door.  Outside,  by  an  ash-pit, 
he  found  a  bucket  and  half -buried  shovel.  A 
minute  afterward  the  kitchen  was  filled  with  grey 
clouds  as  he  shovelled  the  ashes  into  the  bucket  for 
removal.  He  worked  vigorously,  and  the  pile  soon 
disappeared;  the  wood  and  coal  followed,  carried 
out  to  where  a  bin  was  built  against  the  house. 
Then  he  raked  the  fire  from  the  stove. 

It  was  cold  within,  but  Gordon  glowed  with  the 
heat  of  his  energy.  He  filled  a  basin  with  water, 
and,  with  an  old  brush  and  piece  of  sandsoap, 
attacked  the  stove.  He  scrubbed  until  the  surface 
exhibited  a  dull,  even  black;  then,  in  a  cupboard,  he 
discovered  an  old  box  of  stove  polish,  and  soon  the 
iron  was  gleaming  in  the  lamplight.  He  laid  and 
lit  a  fire,  put  on  a  tin  boiler  of  water  for  heating, 
and  then  carried  all  the  movables  into  the  night; 
after  which  he  fed  General  Jackson. 

He  flooded  the  kitchen  floor  and  scrubbed  and 
scraped  until  the  boards  were  immaculate.  Then, 
with  a  wet  towel  about  a  broom,  he  cleaned  the  walls 
and  ceiling;  he  washed  the  panes  of  window  glass. 
The  dishes  followed;  they  were  dried  and  ranged 
in  rigid  rows  on  the  dresser;  the  pots  were  scoured 
and  placed  in  the  closets  underneath.  Now,  he 
thought  vindictively,  when  he  had  finished,  the 
kitchen  would  suit  even  Sim  Caley's  wife — the  old 
vinegar  bottle. 

The  Caleys  had  left  his  house  the  morning 
following  Lettice's  funeral.  Mrs.  Caley  had  de- 
parted without  a  word;  Sim  with  but  a  brief, 
awkward  farewell.  Since  then  Gordon  had  lived 
alone  in  the  house ;  but  he  now  realized  that  it  was 


252  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

not  desirable,  practicable.  Things,  he  knew,  would 
soon  return  to  the  dirt  and  disorder  of  a  few  hours 
ago.  He  needed  some  one,  a  woman,  to  keep  the 
place  decent.  His  necessity  recalled  the  children 
of  his  sister.  .  .  .  There  was  only  Rose;  the  next 
girl  was  too  young  for  dependence.  Rose  had  been 
married  a  year  now,  and  had  a  baby.  Her  husband 
had  been  in  the  village  only  the  week  before  in 
search  of  employment,  which  he  had  been  unable 
to  secure,  and  it  was  immaterial  where  in  the 
County  they  lived. 


V 

THE  couple  grasped  avidly  at  the  opportunity  to 
live  with  him.  The  youth  had  already  evaporated 
from  Rose's  countenance;  her  minute  mouth  and 
constantly  lifted  eyebrows  expressed  an  inwardly 
gratifying  sense  of  superiority,  an  effect  strength- 
ened by  her  thin,  affected  speech.  Across  her 
narrow  brow  a  fringe  of  hair  fell,  which  she  was 
continually  crimping  with  an  iron  heated  in  the 
kitchen  stove,  permeating  the  room  with  a  lingering 
and  villainous  odour  of  burned  hair. 

William  Vibard  was  a  man  with  a  passion — the 
accordion.  He  arrived  with  the  instrument  in  a 
glossy  black  paper  box,  produced  it  at  the  first 
opportunity,  and  sat  by  the  stove  drawing  it  out  to 
incredible  lengths  in  the  production  of  still  more 
incredible  sounds.  He  held  one  box-like  end,  with 
its  metallic  stops,  by  his  left  ear,  while  his  right 
hand,  unfalteringly  fixed  in  the  strap  of  the  other 
end,  operated  largely  in  the  region  of  his  stomach. 

He  had  a  book  of  instructions  and  melodies 
printed  in  highly  simplified  and  explanatory  bars, 
which  he  balanced  on  his  knee  while  he  struggled  in 
their  execution. 

He  was  a  youth  of  large,  palpable  bones,  joints, 
and  knuckles ;  his  face  was  long  and  preternaturally 
pale,  and  bore  an  abstracted  expression  which 

253 


254  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

deepened  almost  to  idiocy  when  bent  above  the 
quavering,  unaccountable  accordion. 

The  Vibard  baby  was  alarmingly  little,  with  a 
bluish  face ;  and,  as  if  in  protest  against  her  father's 
interminable  noise,  lay  wrapped  in  a  knitted  red 
blanket  without  a  murmur,  without  a  stir  of  her 
midgelike  form,  hour  upon  hour. 


VI 

SOME  days  after  the  Vibards'  arrival  Gordon 
Makimmon  was  standing  by  the  stable  door,  in  the 
crisp  flood  of  midday,  when  an  ungainly  young  man 
strode  about  the  corner  of  the  dwelling  and  ap- 
proached him. 

"  You're  Makimmon,"  he  half  queried,  half 
asserted.  "  I'm  Edgar  Crandall,  Alexander's 
brother/'  He  took  off  his  hat,  and  passed  his  hand 
in  a  quick  gesture  across  his  brow.  He  had  close- 
cut  vivid  red  hair  bristling  like  a  helmet  over  a 
long,  narrow  skull,  and  a  thrusting  grey  gaze.  "  I 
came  to  see  you,"  he  continued,  "  because  of  what 
you  did  for  Alec.  I  can't  make  out  just  what  it  was ; 
but  he  says  you  saved  his  farm,  pulled  it  right  out 
of  Cannon's  fingers,  and  that  you've  given  him  all 
the  time  he  needs  to  pay  it  back "  He  paused. 

'  Well,"  Gordon  responded,  "  and  if  I  did  ?" 

"  I  studied  over  it  at  first,"  the  other  frankly 
admitted;  "  I  thought  you  must  have  a  string  tied 
to  something.  I  know  Alexander's  place;  it's  a 
good  farm,  but  ...  I  studied  and  studied  until  I 
saw  there  couldn't  be  more  in  it  than  what  appeared. 
I  don't  know  why " 

'  Why  should  you  ?"  Gordon  interrupted 
brusquely,  annoyed  by  this  searching  into  the 
reason  for  his  purchase  of  the  farm,  into  the  region 
of  his  memories. 

255 


256  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

'  I  didn't  come  here  to  ask  questions/'  the  other 
quickly  assured  him;  "  but  to  borrow  four  thousand 
dollars." 

'  Why  not  forty  ?"  Gordon  asked  dryly. 

"  Because  I  couldn't  put  it  out  at  profit,  now." 
Edgar  Crandall  ignored  the  other's  factitious 
manner:  "  But  I  can  turn  four  over  two  or  three 
times  in  a  reasonable  period.  I  can't  give  you  any 
security — everything's  covered  I  own;  that's  why 
I  came  to  you." 

'  You  heard  I  was  a  fool  with  some  money  ?" 

'  You  didn't  ask  any  security  of  Alexander,"  he 
retorted.  "  No,  I  came  to  you  because  there  was 
something  different  in  what  you  did  from  all  I  had 
ever  known  before.  I  can't  tell  what  I  mean;  it  had 
a — well,  a  sort  of  big  indifference  about  it.  It 
seemed  to  me  perhaps  life  hadn't  got  you  in  the  fix 
it  had  most  of  us;  that  you  were  free." 

"  You  must  think  I'm  free — with  four  thousand 
dollars." 

' '  Apples , ' '  the  other  continued  resolutely .  :  *  I ' ve 
got  the  ground,  acres  of  prime  sunny  slope.  I've 
read  about  apple  growing  and  talked  to  men  who 
know.  I've  been  to  Albemarle  County.  I  can  do 
the  same  thing  in  the  Bottom.  Ask  anybody  who 
knows  me  if  I'll  work.  I  can  pay  the  money  back 
all  right.  But,  if  I  know  you  from  what  you  did, 
that's  not  the  thing  to  talk  about  now. 

"  I  want  a  chance  "  —he  drove  a  knotted  fist  into 
a  hardened  palm—  "  I  want  a  chance  to  bring  out 
what's  in  me  and  in  my  land.  I  want  my  own  ! 
The  place  came  to  me  clear,  with  a  little  money;  but 
I  wasn't  content  with  a  crop  of  fodder.  I  improved 
and  experimented  with  the  soil  till  I  found  out  what 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  257 

was  in  her.  Now  I  know;  but  I  can't  plant  a  sap- 
ling, I  can't  raise  an  apple,  without  binding  myself 
to  the  Cannons  and  Hollidews  of  the  county  for 
life. 

"I'd  be  their  man,  growing  their  fruit,  paying 
them  their  profits.  They  would  stop  at  the  fence, 
behind  their  span  of  pacers,  and  watch  me — their 
slave — sweating  in  the  field  or  orchard." 

'  You  seem  to  think,"  Gordon  observed,  "  that 
you  ought  to  have  some  special  favour,  that  what 
grinds  other  men  ought  to  miss  you.  Old  Pompey 
sold  out  many  a  better  man,  and  grabbed  richer 
farms.  And  anyhow,  if  I  was  to  money  all  that 
Cannon  and  Valentine  Simmons  got  hold  of,  where 
would  I  be  ?  Here's  two  of  you  in  one  family,  in 
no  time  at  all.  .  .  .  If  that  got  about  I'd  have  five 
hundred  breaking  the  door  in." 

The  animation  died  from  Edgar  Crandall's  face; 
he  pulled  his  hat  over  the  flaming  helmet  of  hair. 
'  I  might  have  known  such  things  ain't  true,"  he 
said;  "  it  was  just  a  freak  that  saved  Alec.  There's 
no  chance  for  a  man,  for  a  living,  in  these  dam' 
mountains.  They  look  big  and  open  and  free,  but 
Greenstream's  the  littlest,  meanest  place  on  the 
earth.  The  paper -shavers  own  the  sky  and  air. 
Well,  111  let  the  ground  rot;  I  won't  work  my  guts 
out  for  any  one  else." 

He  turned  sharply  and  disappeared  about  the 
corner  of  the  dwelling.  Gordon  moved  to  watch 
him  stride  up  the  slope  to  where  a  horse  was  tied 
by  the  public  road.  Crandall  swung  himself  into 
the  saddle,  brought  his  heels  savagely  into  the 
horse's  sides,  and  clattered  over  the  road. 

Gordon  Makimmon's  annoyance  quickly  evapo- 

17 


258  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

rated ;  he  thought  with  a  measure  of  amusement  of 
the  impetuous  young  man  who  was  not  content  to 
grow  a  crop  of  fodder.  If  the  men  of  Greenstream 
all  resembled  Edgar  Crandall,  he  realized,  the 
Cannons  would  have  an  uneasy  time.  He  thought 
of  the  brother,  Alexander,  of  Alexander's  wife,  who 
resembled  Lettice,  and  determined  to  drive  soon  to 
the  Bottom  and  see  them  and  the  farm.  He  would 
have  to  make  a  practicable  arrangement  with  regard 
to  the  latter,  secure  his  intention,  avoid  question,  by 
a  nominal  scheme  of  payment. 


VII 

HE  knew,  generally,  where  Alexander  Crandall's 
farm  lay;  and,  shortly  after,  he  drove  through  the 
village  and  mounted  the  road  over  which  plied  the 
Stenton  stage.  In  the  Bottom,  beyond  the  east 
range,  he  went  to  the  right  and  passed  over  an  ill- 
defined  way  with  numerous  and  deep  fords.  It 
was  afternoon;  an  even,  sullen  expanse  of  cloud  hid 
the  deeps  of  sky  through  which  the  sun  moved  like 
a  newly-minted  silver  dollar.  A  sharp  wind  drew 
through  the  opening;  the  fallen  leaves  rose  from 
the  road  in  sudden  agitated  whirling;  the  gaunt 
branches,  printed  sharply  on  the  curtain  of  cloud, 
revealed  the  deserted  nests  of  past  springs. 

He  drove  by  solitary  farms,  their  acres  lying  open 
and  dead  among  the  brush,  and  stopped,  undecided, 
before  a  fenced  clearing  that  swept  back  to  the 
abrupt  wall  of  the  range,  against  which  a  low  house 
was  scarcely  distinguishable  from  the  sere,  rocky 
ascent.  Finally  he  drove  in,  over  a  faintly  marked 
track,  past  a  corner  of  the  fence  railed  about  a  trough 
for  sheep  shearing,  to  the  house.  A  pine  tree  stood 
at  either  side  of  the  large  uncut  stone  at  the  thres- 
hold; except  for  a  massive  exterior  chimney  the 
sombrely  painted  frame  structure  was  without 
noticeable  feature. 

He  discovered  immediately  from  the  youthful 

259 


260  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

feminine  figure  awaiting  him  at  the  door  that  he 
was  not  at  fault.  Mrs.  Crandall's  face  radiated  her 
pleasure. 

"  Mr.  Makimmon  \"  she  cried;  "  there's  just  no 
one  we'd  rather  see  than  you.  Step  right  out,  and 
Alexander '11  take  your  horse .  He's  only  at  the  back 
of  the  house.  .  .  .  Alec  !"  she  called;  "  Alec,  what 
do  you  suppose  ? — here's  Mr.  Makimmon." 

Alexander  Crandall  quickly  appeared,  in  a  hide 
apron  covered  with  curlings  of  wood.  A  slight 
concern  was  visible  upon  his  countenance,  as  though 
he  expected  at  any  moment  to  see  revealed  the 
"  string  "  of  which  his  brother  had  spoken. 

Gordon  adequately  met  his  salutation,  and  turned 
to  the  woman.  He  saw  now  that  she  was  more 
mature  than  Lettice:  the  mouth  before  him,  al- 
though young  and  red,  was  bitten  in  at  the  corners; 
already  the  eyes  gazed  through  a  shadow  of  care; 
the  capable  hands  were  rough  and  discoloured  from 
toil  and  astringent  soaps. 

"  Come  in,  come  in,"  Crandall  urged,  striving  to 
banish  the  sudden  anxiety  from  his  voice. 

"  And  you  go  right  around,  Alec,"  his  wife  added, 
"  and  twist  the  head  off  that  dominicker  chicken. 
Pick  some  flat  beans  too;  there's  a  mess  still  hanging 
on  the  poles.  Go  in,  Mr.  Makimmon." 

He  was  ushered  into  the  ceremonious,  barely- 
furnished  best  room.  There  was  a  small  rag 
carpet  at  the  door,  with  an  archaic  woven  animal, 
and  at  its  feet  an  unsteady  legend,  "  Mary's  Little 
Lamb  ";  but  the  floor  was  uncovered,  and  the  walls, 
sealed  in  resinous  pine,  the  pine  ceiling,  gave  the 
effect,  singular  and  depressing,  of  standing  inside  a 
huge  box. 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  261 

"  It's  mortal  cold  here/'  Mrs.  Crandall  truthfully 
observed;  "  the  grate's  broken.  If  you  wouldn't 
mind  going  out  into  the  kitchen 

In  the  kitchen,  from  a  comfortable  place  by  the 
fire,  Gordon  watched  her  deft  preparations  for  an 
early  supper.  Crandall  appeared  with  the  picked 
dominicker,  and  sat  rigidly  before  his  guest. 

"  I  don't  quite  make  out,"  he  at  last  essayed, 
"  how  you  expect  your  money,  what  you  want  out 
of  it." 

"  I  don't  want  anything  out  of  it,"  Gordon 
replied  with  an  almost  bitter  vigour;  "  leastways 
not  any  premium.  I  said  you  could  pay  me  when 
you  liked.  I'll  deed  you  the  farm,  and  we'll  draw 
up  a  paper  to  suit — to  suit  crops." 

The  apprehension  in  Alexander  Crandall's  face 
turned  to  perplexed  relief.  "  I  don't  understand," 
he  admitted;  "  but  I  haven't  got  to.  It's  enough  to 
know  that  you  pulled  us  out  of  ruination.  Things 
will  come  right  along  now;  we  can  see  light;  I'm 
extending  the  sheep-cots  twice." 

Supper  at  an  end,  he  too  launched  upon  the  lack 
of  opportunity  in  Greenstream.  "  Some  day,"  he 
asserted,  "  and  not  so  far  off  either,  we'll  shake  off 
the  grip  of  these  blood-money  men;  we'll  have  a 
state  lawed  bank,  a  rate  of  interest  a  man  can  carry 
without  breaking  his  back.  There's  no  better  land 
than  the  Bottom,  or  the  higher  clearings  for  grazing 
.  .  .  it's  the  men,  some  of  'em.  .  .  ." 


VIII 

IT  was  dark  when  Gordon  closed  the  stable  door 
and  turned  to  his  dwelling.  A  light  streamed 
from  a  chink  in  the  closed  kitchen  shutter  like  a 
gold  arrow  shot  into  the  night.  From  within  came 
the  long-drawn  quaver  of  William  Vibard's  per- 
formance of  the  Arkansas  Traveller.  He  was  sit- 
ting bowed  over  the  accordion,  his  jaw  dropped,  his 
eyes  glazed  with  the  intoxication  of  his  obsession. 
Rose  was  rigidly  upright  in  a  straight  chair,  her 
hands  crossed  at  the  wrists  in  her  meagre  lap. 

The  fluctuating,  lamentable  sounds  of  the  instru- 
ment, Rose's  expression  of  conscious  virtue,  were 
suddenly  petty,  exasperating;  and  Gordon,  after  a 
short  acknowledgment  of  their  greeting,  proceeded 
through  the  house  to  the  sitting-room  beyond. 

No  fire  had  been  laid  in  the  small  air-tight  stove ; 
the  room  had  a  closed,  musty  smell,  and  was  more 
chill  than  the  night  without ;  his  breath  hung  before 
him  in  a  white  vapour.  Soon  he  had  wood  burning 
explosively ;  the  stove  grew  rapidly  red  hot  and  the 
chill  vanished.  He  saw,  beyond  the  lamp  with  its 
shade  of  minute,  variously-coloured  silks,  the  effigy 
of  Mrs.  Hollidew  dead.  Undisturbed  in  the  film  of 
dust  that  overlaid  the  table  stood  a  pink  celluloid 
thimble  .  .  .  Lettice  had  placed  it  there.  .  .  . 

His  thoughts  turned  to  Alexander  Crandall  and 
262 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  263 

his  wife,  to  the  extended  sheep-cots,  and  the 
"  light  "  which  they  now  saw.  He  recalled  the 
former's  assertion  that  the  land  was  all  right,  but 
that  the  blood-money  men  made  life  arduous  in 
Greenstream.  He  remembered  Edgar  CrandalTs 
arraignment  of  the  county  as  "  the  littlest,  meanest 
place  on  earth,"  a  place  where  a  man  who  wanted 
his  own,  his  chance,  was  helpless  to  survive  the 
avarice  of  a  few  individuals,  the  avarice  for  gold. 
He  had  asked  him,  Gordon  Makimmon,  to  give  him 
that  chance.  But,  obviously,  it  was  impossible 
.  .  .  absurd. 

His  memory  drifted  back  to  the  evening  in  the 
store  when  Valentine  Simmons  had  abruptly  de- 
manded payment  of  his  neglected  account,  to  the 
hopeless  rage  that  had  possessed  him  at  the  realiza- 
tion of  his  impotence,  of  Clare's  illness.  That 
scene,  that  bitter  realization  of  ruin,  had  been 
repeated  across  the  breadth  of  Greenstream.  As  a 
boy  he  had  heard  men  in  shaking  tones  curse 
Pompey  Hollidew;  only  last  week  the  red-headed 
Crandall  had  sworn  he  would  let  his  ground  rot 
rather  than  slave  for  the  breed  of  Cannon.  It  was, 
apparently,  a  perpetual  evil,  an  endless  burden  for 
the  shoulders  of  men  momentarily  forgetful  or 
caught  in  a  trap  of  circumstance. 

Yet  he  had,  without  effort,  without  deprivation, 
freed  Alexander  Crandall.  He  could  have  freed 
his  brother,  given  him  the  chance  his  rebellious  soul 
demanded,  with  equal  ease.  He  had  not  done  that 
last,  he  had  said  at  the  time,  because  of  the  numbers 
that  would  immediately  besiege  him  for  assistance. 
This,  he  realized,  was  not  a  valid  objection — the 
money  was  his  to  dispose  of  as  he  saw  fit.  He  pos- 


264  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

sessed  large  suras  lying  at  the  Stenton  banks,  auto- 
matically returning  him  interest,  profit;  thrown  in 
the  scale,  their  weight  would  go  far  toward  balanc- 
ing the  greed  of  Valentine  Simmons,  of  Cannon. 

He  considered  these  facts  totally  ignorant  of  the 
fact  that  they  were  but  the  reflection  of  his  own  in- 
choate need,  born  in  the  anguish  of  his  wife's  death; 
he  was  not  conscious  of  the  veering  of  his  sensi- 
bility— sharpened  by  the  hoarse  cry  from  the  stiffen- 
ing lips  of  Lettice — to  the  world  without.  He 
thought  of  the  possibility  before  him  as  a  scheme  of 
neither  philanthropy  nor  revenge,  nor  of  rehabilita- 
tion. He  considered  it  solely  in  the  light  of  his 
own  experience,  as  a  practical  measure  to  give  men 
their  chance,  their  own,  in  Greenstream.  The  cost 
to  himself  would  be  small — his  money  had  faded 
from  his  conceptions,  his  necessities,  as  absolutely 
as  though  it  had  been  fairy  gold  dissolved  by  the 
touch  of  a  magic  wand.  He  had  never  realized  its 
potentiality;  lately  he  had  ignored  it  with  the 
contempt  of  supreme  indifference.  Now  an  actual 
employment  for  it  occupied  his  mind. 

The  stove  glowed  with  calorific  energy;  General 
Jackson,  who  had  been  lying  at  his  feet,  moved 
farther  away.  The  lamplight  grew  faint  and 
reddish,  and  then  expired,  trailing  a  thin,  penetrat- 
ing odour.  In  the  dark  the  heated  cylinder  of  the 
stove  shone  rosy,  mysterious. 

Gordon  Makimmon  was  unaware  of  his  own 
need ;  yet,  at  the  anticipation  of  the  vigorous  course 
certain  to  follow  a  decision  to  use  his  money  in 
opposition  to  the  old,  established  rapacious  greed, 
he  was  conscious  of  a  sudden  tightening  of  his 
mental  and  physical  fibres.  The  belligerent  blood 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  265 

carried  by  George  Gordon  MacKimmon  from  world- 
old  wars,  from  the  endless  strife  of  bitter  and  rugged 
men  in  high,  austere  places,  stirred  once  more 
through  his  relaxed  and  rusting  being. 

He  thought,  aglow  like  the  stove,  of  the  struggle 
that  would  follow  such  a  determination,  a  struggle 
with  the  pink  fox,  Valentine  Simmons .  He  thought 
of  himself  as  an  equal  with  the  other;  for,  if 
Simmons  were  practised  in  cunning,  if  Simmons 
were  deep,  he,  Gordon  Makimmon,  would  have  no 
necessity  for  circuitous  dealing ;  his  course  would  be 
simple,  unmistakable.  He  would  lend  money  at, 
say,  three  per  cent.,  grant  extensions  of  time 
wherever  necessary,  and  knock  the  bottom  out  of 
the  storekeepers'  usurious  monopoly,  drag  the 
farms  out  of  Cannon's  grasping  ringers. 

"  By  God  \"  he  exclaimed,  erect  in  the  dark; 
''  but  Edgar  Crandall  will  get  his  apples." 

The  dog  licked  his  hand,  faithful,  uncompre- 
hending. 


IX 

ON  an  afternoon  of  mid-August  Gordon  was  sitting 
in  the  chamber  of  his  dwelling  that  had  been 
formerly  used  as  dining-room.  The  table,  bare  of 
the  castor  and  the  red  cloth,  held  an  inkpot,  pens 
upright  in  a  glass  of  shot,  and  torn  envelopes  on 
an  old  blotter.  An  iron  safe  stood  against  the 
wall  at  Gordon's  back,  and  above  it  hung  a  large 
calendar,  advertising  the  Stenton  Realty  and  Trust 
Company. 

A  sudden  gloom  swept  over  the  room,  and 
Gordon  rose,  proceeded  to  the  door.  A  bank  of 
purple  cloud  swept  above  the  west  range,  opened  in 
the  sky  like  a  gigantic,  menacing  fist;  the  greenery 
of  the  valley  was  overcast,  and  a  white  flash  of 
lightning,  accompanied  by  a  shattering  peal  of 
thunder,  stabbed  viciously  at  the  earth.  There  was 
no  rain.  An  edge  of  serene  light  followed  in  the 
west  a  band  of  saffron  radiance  that  widened  until 
the  cloud  had  vanished  beyond  the  eastern  peaks. 
The  sultry  heat  lay  like  a  blanket  over  Greenstream. 

He  turned  back  into  the  room,  but,  as  he  moved, 
he  was  aware  of  a  figure  at  the  porch  door.  It  was 
a  man  with  a  round,  freshly-coloured  countenance, 
bland  eyes,  and  a  limp  moustache,  clad  in  leather 
boots  and  a  worn  corduroy  gunning  coat.  Gordon 
nodded  familiarly;  it  was  the  younger  Entriken 
from  the  valley  beyond. 

266 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  267 

"  I  came  to  see  you  about  my  note,"  lie  announced 
n  a  facile  candour;  "  I  sh'd  take  it  up  this  month, 
but  times  are  terrible  bad,  Gordon,  and  I  wondered 
if  you'd  give  me  another  extension  ?  There's  no 
real  reason  why  you  sh'd  wait  again;  I  reckon  I 
could  make  her,  but  it  would  certainly  be  accom- 
modating   He  paused  interrogatively. 

"  Well—  '  Gordon  hesitated.  "  I'm  not  in  a 
hurry  for  the  note,  if  it  comes  to  that.  But  the 
fact  is  ...  I've  got  a  lot  of  money  laid  out.  What's 
been  the  matter  ? — the  weather  has  been  good,  it's 

rained  regular " 

'  That's  just  it,"  Entriken  interrupted;  "  it's 
rained  too  blamed  regular.  It  is  all  right  for  crops, 
but  we've  got  nothing  besides  cattle,  and  steers 
wouldn't  hardly  put  on  anything  the  past  weeks. 
Of  course,  in  a  way,  grass  is  cattle,  but  it  just  seems 
they  wouldn't  take  any  good  in  the  wet." 

"  I  suppose  it  will  be  all  right,"  Gordon  Makim- 
mon  assented;  "  but  I  can  hardly  have  the  money 
out  so  long  .  .  .  others  too." 


THE  heat  thickened  with  the  dusk.  The  wailing 
clamour  of  William.  Vibard's  accordion  rose  from 
the  porch.  Gordon  had,  of  late,  avoided  sitting 
with  Rose  and  her  husband;  they  irritated  him  in 
countless  insignificant  ways.  Rose's  superiority 
had  risen  above  the  commonplace  details  of  the 
house;  she  sat  on  the  porch  and  regarded  Gordon 
with  a  strained,  rigid  smile.  After  a  pretence  at 
procuring  work  William  Vibard  had  relapsed  into 
an  endless  debauch  of  sound.  His  manner  became 
increasingly  abstracted;  he  ate,  he  lived,  with  the 
gestures  of  a  man  playing  an  accordion. 

The  lines  on  Gordon's  thin,  dark  face  had 
multiplied;  his  eyes,  in  the  shadow  of  his  bony 
forehead,  burned  steady,  pale  blue;  his  chin  was 
resolute;  but  a  new  doubt,  a  constant  faint  per- 
plexity, blurred  the  line  of  his  mouth. 

From  the  road  above  came  the  familiar  sound  of 
hoofbeats,  muffled  in  dust,  but  it  stopped  opposite 
his  dwelling;  and,  soon  after,  the  porch  creaked 
under  slow,  heavy  feet,  and  a  thick  black-clad 
figure  knocked  and  entered. 

It  was  the  priest,  Merlier. 

In  the  past  months  Gordon  had  been  conscious  of 
an  increasing  concord  with  the  silent  clerical.  He 
vaguely  felt  in  the  other's  isolation  the  wreckage 
of  an  old  catastrophe,  a  loneliness,  not  unlike  his, 

268 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  269 

Gordon  Makimmon's,  who  had  killed  his  wife  and 
their  child. 

'  The  Nickleses,"  the  priest  pronounced,  sudden 
and  harsh,  "  are  worthless,  woman  and  man.  They 
would  be  bad  if  they  were  better;  as  it  is,  they  are 
only  a  drunken  charge  on  charity  and  the  church. 
They  have  been  stewed  in  whisky  now  for  a  month. 
They  make  nothing  amongst  their  weeds.  Is  it 
possible  they  got  a  sum  from  you  ?" 

"  Six  weeks  back/'  Gordon  replied  briefly;  "  two 
hundred  dollars  to  put  a  floor  on  the  bare  earth 
and  stop  a  leaking  roof/' 

"Lies,"  Merlier  commented.  'When  any  one 
in  my  church  is  deserving  I  will  tell  you  myself.  I 
think  of  an  old  woman  now,  but  ten  dollars  would 
be  a  fortune/'  Silence  fell  upon  them.  Then: 

"Charity  is  commanded/'  he  proceeded,  "  but  out 
of  the  hands  of  authority  it  is  a  difficult  and 
treacherous  virtue.  The  people  are  without  com- 
prehension." He  made  a  gesture  of  contempt. 

'  With  age,"  the  deliberate  voice  went  on,  "the 
soul  grows  restless  and  moves  in  strange  directions, 
struggling  to  throw  off  the  burden  of  flesh.  But  I 
that  know  tell  you" — Merlier  paused  at  the  door— 
"  the  charity  of  material  benevolence,  of  gold,  will 
cure  no  spiritual  sores;  for  spirit  is  eternal,  but  the 
flesh  is  only  so  much  dung."  He  stopped  abruptly, 
coughed,  as  though  he  had  carried  his  utterance 
beyond  propriety.  "  The  Nickleses,"  he  repeated 
sombrely,  "  are  worthless;  they  make  trouble  in  my 
parish;  with  money  they  make  more." 


XI 

THE  year,  in  the  immemorial,  minute  shifting  of 
season,  grew  brittle  and  cold;  the  dusk  fell  sooner 
and  night  lingered  late  into  morning. 

William  Vibard  moved  with  his  accordion  from 
the  porch  to  beside  the  kitchen  stove.  He  was  in 
the  throes  of  a  new  piece,  McGinty,  and  Gordon 
Makimmon  was  correspondingly  surprised  when,  as 
he  was  intent  upon  some  papers,  Rose's  husband 
voluntarily  relinquished  his  instrument  and  sat  in 
the  room  with  him. 

'  What's    the    matter,"    Gordon    indifferently 
inquired;  "  is  she  busted  ?" 

William  Vibard  indignantly  repudiated  that 
possibility.  A  wave  of  purpose  rose  to  the  long, 
corrugated  countenance,  but  sank,  without  finding 
expression  in  speech.  Finally  Gordon  heard  Rose 
calling  her  husband.  That  young  man  twitched  in 
his  chair,  but  he  made  no  other  move,  no  answer. 
Her  voice  rose  again,  sharp  and  urgent,  and  Gordon 
observed : 

'  Your  wife's  a-calling." 

"  I  heard  her,  but  I'd  ruther  sit  right  where  I  am." 

She  appeared  in  the  doorway,  flushed  and  angry. 

'  William,"  she  commanded,  "  you  come  straight 

out  here  to  the  kitchen.     I  got  a  question  for 

you." 

270 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  271 

"  I'll  stay  just  where  I  am  for  a  spell,"  he  replied, 
avoiding  her  gaze. 

"  You  do  as  I  tell  you  right  off." 

A  stubborn  expression  settled  over  his  face  and 
shoulders.  He  made  her  no  further  reply.  Rose's 
anger  gathered  in  a  tempest  that  she  tried  in  vain 
to  restrain. 

'  William,"  she  demanded,  "  where  is  it  ?  It's 
gone — you  know  what." 

"  I  ain't  seen  it,"  he  answered  finally;  "  I  really 
ain't,  Rose." 

"  That's  a  story;  only  you  knew.  Come  out 
here." 

' '  G  et  along , "  G  ordon  interrupted  testily .  ' '  How 
can  I  figure  in  this  ruction  ?" 

"  I  ain't  agoing  a  step,"  William  told  them  both; 
"  I'm  going  to  stop  right  here  with  Uncle  Gordon." 

'  Well,  then,"  the  latter  insisted,  "  get  it  through 
with— what  is  it  ?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,"  William  Vibard  stam- 
mered; "  it's  a  hundred  and  forty  dollars  Rose  held 
out  on  you  and  kept  in  a  drawer;  that's  what !" 

Rose's  emotion  changed  to  a  crimson  consterna- 
tion. 

'  Why,  William  Vibard  !  what  an  awful  thing  to 
say.  What  little  money  I  had  put  by  was  saved 
from  years.  What  a  thing  to  say  about  me  and 
Uncle  Gordon." 

'Tain't  no  such  thing  you  saved  it;  you  held  it 
out  on  him,  dollars  at  a  time.  You  didn't  have  no 
more  right  to  it  than  I  did." 

Gordon's  gaze  centred  keenly  upon  his  niece's  hot 
face.  She  endeavoured  to  sustain,  refute,  the 
accusation  successfully;  but  her  valour  wavered, 


272  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

broke.    She  disappeared  abruptly.    He  surveyed 
Vibard  without  pleasure. 

'  You're  a  ramshackle  contraption,"  he  observed 
crisply. 

"  I  got  as  good  a  right  to  it  as  her,"  the  other 
repeated. 

"  A  hundred  and  forty  dollars,"  Gordon  said 
bitterly;  "  that's  a  small  business.  Well,  where  is 
it  ?  Have  you  got  it  ?" 

"  No,  I  ain't,"  William  exploded. 

•  Well ?" 

'  You  can't  never  tell  what  might  happen,"  the 
young  man  observed  enigmatically;  "  the  bellowses 
wear  out  dreadful  quick,  the  keys  work  loose  like, 
and  then  they  might  stop  making  them.  It's  the 
best  one  on  the  market." 

'  What  scrabble's  this  ?  What  did  you  do  with 
the  money  ?" 

'They're  in  the  stable,"  William  Vibard 
answered  more  obscurely  than  before.  '  With 
good  treatment  they  ought  to  last  a  life.  They 
come  cheaper,  too,  like  that." 

Gordon  relinquished  all  hope  of  extracting  any 
meaning  from  the  other's  elliptical  speech .  He  rose . 
"  If  '  they're  '  in  the  stable,"  he  announced,  "  I'll 
soon  have  some  sense  out  of  you."  He  procured  a 
lantern  and  tramped  shortly  to  the  stable,  closely 
followed  by  Rose's  husband. 

"  Now  !"  he  exclaimed,  loosening  the  hasp  of  the 
door,  throwing  it  open. 

William  Vibard  entered  and  bent  over  a  heap  in 
an  obscure  corner.  When  he  rose  the  lantern  shone 
on  two  orderly  piles  of  glossy  black  paper  boxes. 
Gordon  strode  across  the  contracted  space  and 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  273 

wrenched  off  a  lid.  .  .  .     Within  reposed  a  brand 
new  accordion.    There  were  nine  others. 

'You  see/'  William  eagerly  interposed;  "now 
I'm  fixed  good." 

At  the  sight  of  the  grotesque  waste  a  swift 
resentment  moved  Gordon  Makimmon — it  was  a 
mockery  of  his  money's  use,  a  gibing  at  his  capa- 
bility, his  planning.  The  petty  treachery  of  Rose 
added  its  injury.  He  pitched  the  box  in  his  hands 
upon  the  clay  floor,  and  the  accordion  fell  out, 
quivering  like  a  live  thing. 

'  Hey  I"  William  Vibard  remonstrated;  "  don't 

do  like  that  .  .  .  delicate '      He  knelt,  with  an 

expression  of  concern,  and,  tenderly  fingering  the 
instrument,  replaced  it  in  the  box. 

Gordon  turned  sharply  and  returned  to  the  house. 
Rose  was  in  her  room.  He  could  hear  her  moving 
rapidly  about,  pulling  at  the  bureau  drawers. 
Depression  settled  upon  him;  he  carried  the  lantern 
into  the  bedroom,  where  he  sat  bowed,  troubled. 
He  was  aroused  finally  by  the  faint  strains  of 
William's  latest  melodic  effort  drifting  discreetly 
from  the  stable. 

The  next  morning  the  Vibards  departed.  Rose 
was  silent,  her  face,  red  and  swollen,  was  vindictive. 
On  the  back  of  the  vehicle  that  conveyed  them  to 
the  parental  Berry's  was  securely  tied  the  square 
bundle  that  had  "  fixed  good  "  William  Vibard 
musically  for  life. 


18 


XII 

GORDON  MAKIMMON,  absorbed  in  the  difficult  and 
elusive  calculations  of  his  indefinable  project,  was 
unaware  of  the  change  wrought  by  their  departure, 
of  the  shifting  of  the  year,  the  familiar  acts  and 
living  about  him.  He  looked  up  abruptly  from 
the  road  when  Valentine  Simmons,  upon  the  plat- 
form of  the  store,  arrested  his  progress  homeward. 

Simmons 's  voice  was  high  and  shrill,  as  though 
time  had  tightened  and  dried  his  vocal  cords;  his 
cheeks  were  still  round  and  pink,  but  they  were 
sapless,  the  colour  lingered  like  a  film  of  desiccated 
paint. 

The  store  remained  unchanged:  Sampson,  the 
clerk,  had  gone,  but  another,  identical  in  shirt 
sleeves  upheld  by  bowed  elastics,  was  brushing  the 
counters  with  a  turkey  wing;  the  merchandise  on 
the  shelves,  unloaded  from  the  slow  procession  of 
capacious  mountain  wagons,  flowed  in  an  endless, 
unvaried  stream  to  the  scattered  upland  homes. 

Valentine  Simmons  took  his  familiar  place  in  the 
glass  enclosure,  revolving  his  chair  to  fix  on  Gordon 
a  bird-like  attention. 

"  As  an  old  friend,"  he  declared,  "  an  old  Pres- 
byterian friend,  I  want  to  lay  some  of  my  experience 
before  you.  I  want  to  complain  a  little,  Gordon; 
I  have  the  right  .  .  .  my  years,  Pompey's  associate. 

274 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  275 

The  fact  is — you're  hurting  the  County,  you're 
hurting  the  people  and  me;  you're  hurting  yourself. 
Everybody  is  suffering  from  your — your  mistaken 
generosity.  We  have  all  become  out  of  sorts,  un- 
balanced, from  the  exceptional  condition  you  have 
brought  about.  It  won't  do,  Gordon;  credit  has 
been  upset,  we  don't  know  where  we  stand  or  who's 
who;  it's  bad. 

'  I  said  you  suffered  with  the  rest  of  us,  but  you 
are  worse  off  still.  How  shall  I  put  it  ? — the 
County  is  taking  sad  advantage  of  your,  er — 
liberality.  There's  young  Entriken;  he  was  in  the 
store  a  little  time  ago  and  told  me  that  you  had 
extended  his  note  again.  He  thought  it  was  smart 
to  hold  out  the  money  on  you.  There's  not  a  like- 
lier farm,  not  better  conditioned  cattle,  than  his  in 
Greenstream.  He  could  pay  twenty  notes  like  yours 
in  a  day's  time .  I  hate  to  see  money  cheapened  like 
that;  it  ain't  healthy. 

'  What  is  it  you're  after,  Gordon  ?  Is  it  at  the 
incorruptible,  the  heavenly,  treasure  you're  aiming  ? 
But  if  it  is,  I'll  venture  this — that  the  Lord  doesn't 
love  a  fool.  And  the  man  with  the  talents — don't 
overlook  him." 

'  I'm  not  aiming  at  anything,"  Gordon  answered ; 
"  I'm  just  doing." 

"  And  there's  that  Hagan  that  got  five  thousand 
from  you ;  it's  an  open  fact  about  him.  He  came 
from  the  other  end  of  the  state,  clear  from  Norfolk, 
to  get  a  slice.  He  gave  you  the  address,  the  em- 
ployment, of  a  kin  in  Greenstream  and  left  for  parts 
unknown.  No,  no,  the  Lord  doesn't  love  a  fool." 

"  I  may  be  a  fool  as  you  see  me,"  Gordon  con- 
tended stubbornly;  "  and  the  few  liars  that  get  my 


276  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

money  may  laugh.  But  there's  this,  there's  this, 
Simmons — I'm  not  cursed  by  the  dispossessed  and 
the  ailing  and  the  plumb  penniless.  I  don't  go  to  a 
man  with  his  crop  a  failure  on  the  field,  like — well, 
we'll  say,  Cannon  does,  with  a  note  in  my  hand 
for  his  breath.  I've  put  a  good  few  out  of — of 
Cannon's  reach.  Did  you  forget  that  I  know  how 
it  feels  to  hear  Ed  Hincle,  on  the  Courthouse  steps, 
call  out  my  place  for  debt  ?  Did  you  forget  that 
I  sat  in  this  office  while  you  talked  of  old  Presby- 
terian friends  and  sold  me  into  the  street  ?" 

"  Incorrigible,"  Valentine  Simmons  said,  "  incor- 
rigible; no  sense  of  responsibility.  I  had  hoped 
Pompey's  estate  would  bring  some  out  in  you.  But 
I  should  have  known — it's  the  Makimmon  blood; 
you  are  the  son  of  your  father.  I  knew  your  grand- 
father too,  a  man  that  fairly  insulted  opportunity." 
'  We've  never  been  storekeepers." 

"  Never  kept  much  of  anything,  have  you,  any  of 
you  ?  You  can  call  it  what  you've  a  mind  to, 
liberality  or  shiftlessness.  But  there's  nothing 
saved  by  names.  There:  it  seems  as  if  you  never 
got  civilized;  always  contemptuous  and  violent- 
handed  .  .  .  it's  the  blood.  I've  studied  con- 
siderable about  you  lately;  something'll  have  to  be 
done  for  the  good  of  all." 

'  What  is  it  you  want  of  me  ?" 

"  Call  in  your  bad  debts,"  the  other  promptly 
responded;  "  shake  off  the  worthless  lot  hanging 
to  your  pocket.  Put  the  money  rate  back  where 
it  belongs.  Why,  in  days  gone  by,"  Valentine 
Simmons  chuckled,  "  seventy  per  cent,  wasn't  out 
of  the  way  for  a  forced  loan,  forty  was  just  so-so. 
Ah,  Pompey  and  me  made  some  close  deals. 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  277 

Pompey  multiplied  his  talents.  The  County  was 
an  open  ledger  to  him/' 

"  Didn't  you  ever  think  of  the  men  who  had  to 
pay  you  seventy  per  cent.  ?"  Gordon  asked, 
genuinely  curious. 

"Certainly,"  Simmons  retorted;  "we  educated 
them,  taught  'em  thrift.  While  you  are  promoting 
idleness  and  loose-living.  .  .  .  But  this  is  only  an 
opening  for  what  I  wanted  to  say.  I  had  a  letter 
last  week  from  the  Tennessee  and  Northern  people : 
the  Buffalo  plan  has  matured,  they're  pushing  the 
construction  right  along." 

"  I  intended  to  come  to  you  about  that." 

'  Well  ?" 

"  I  ain't  going  on  with  our  agreement." 

Simmons's  face  exhibited  not  a  trace  of  concern. 

"  I  may  say,"  he  returned  smoothly,  "  that  I  am 
not  completely  surprised.  I  have  been  looking  for 
something  of  the  kind.  I  must  remind  you  that  our 
partnership  is  a  legal  and  binding  instrument;  you 
can't  break  it,  nor  throw  aside  your  responsibility, 
with  a  few  words.  It  will  be  an  expensive  business 
for  you." 

"  I'm  willing  to  pay  with  what  I've  got." 

The  other  held  up  a  palm  in  his  familiar,  arrest- 
ing gesture.  "  Nothing  of  that  magnitude ;  nothing 
out  of  the  way;  I  only  wanted  to  remind  you  that 
a  compensation  should  follow  your  decision.  It 
puts  me  in  a  very  nice  position  indeed.  I  gather 
from  your  refusal  to  continue  the  partnership  that 
you  do  not  intend  to  execute  singly  the  original 
plan ;  it  is  possible  that  you  will  not  hold  the  options 
against  the  coming  of  transportation." 

'  You've  got  her,"  Gordon  declared;  "  I'm  not 


278  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

going  to  profit  seventy  times  over,  tie  up  all  that 
timber,  from  the  ignorance  of  men  that  ought  to 
rightly  advantage  from  it.  I — I—  ''  Gordon  rose 
to  his  feet  in  the  harassing  obscurity  of  his  need; 
"  I  don't  want  to  make  !  I  don't  want  to  take 
anything  .  .  .  never  again  !  I  want— 

'  You  forget,  unfortunately,  that  I  am  forced  to 
be  accessory  to  your — your  change  of  heart.  I 
may  say  that  I  shall  have  to  pay  dearly  for  your — 
your  eleventh  hour  conversion.  Timber  will  be — 
unsteady." 

"  Didn't  you  mention  getting  something  out  of 
it?" 

"  A  mere  detail  to  my  effort,  my  time.  What  my 
timber  will  be  worth,  with  what  you  throw  on  the 
market  hawking  up  and  down  .  .  .  problematic." 

Gordon  Makimmon  hesitated,  a  plan  forming 
vaguely,  painfully,  in  his  mind.  Finally,  "  I  might 
buy  you  out,"  he  suggested,  "  if  you  didn't  ask  too 
dam'  much.  Then  I  could  do  as  I  pleased  with  the 
whole  lot." 

"  Now  that,"  Valentine  Simmons  admitted,  dryly 
cordial,  "  is  a  plan  worth  consideration.  We  might 
agree  on  a  price,  a  low  price  to  an  old  partner.  You 
met  the  Company's  agents,  heard  the  agreement 
outlined;  a  solid  proposal.  And,  as  you  say,  with 
the  timber  control  in  your  own  hands,  you  could 
arrange  as  you  pleased  with  the  people  concerned." 

He  grew  silent,  enveloped  in  thought.    Then: 

'  I'll  take  a  hundred  thousand  for  all  the  options 
I  bought,  for  my  interest  in  the  partnership." 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  could  manage  that,"  Gordon 
admitted. 

An  unassumed  astonishment  marked  the  other's 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  279 

countenance.  '  Why  \"  he  ejaculated,  "  Pompey 

left  an  estate  estimated  at "  He  stopped  from 

sheer  surprise. 

"  Some  of  the  investments  went  bad/'  Gordon 
continued;  "  down  in  Stenton  they  said  I  didn't 
move  'em  fast  enough.  Then  the  old  man  had  a 
lot  laid  out  in  ways  I  don't  hold  with,  with  people 
I  wouldn't  collect  from.  And  it's  a  fact  a  big 
amount's  got  out  here  lately.  Of  course,  it  will 
come  back,  the  most  part." 

Simmons's  expression  grew  sceptical. 

"  I  know  you  too,"  Gordon  added;  "  you'll  want 
the  price  in  your  hand." 

"  I'm  getting  on,"  the  storekeeper  admitted;  "  I 
can't  wait  now." 

"  I  don't  know  if  I  can  make  it,"  Gordon  re- 
peated; "  it'll  strip  me  if  I  do." 

Valentine  Simmons  swung  back  to  his  desk. 
"  At  least,"  he  observed,  "  keep  this  quiet  till  some- 
thing's settled." 

Gordon  agreed. 


XIII 

EVEN  if  he  proved  able  to  buy  out  Simmons,  he 
thought,  walking  home,  it  would  be  a  delicate 
operation  to  return  the  timber  rights  to  where  he 
thought  they  belonged.  He  considered  the  possi- 
bility of  making  a  gift  of  the  options  to  the  men 
from  whom  they  had  been  wrongfully  obtained. 
But  something  of  Simmons 's  shrewd  knowledge 
of  the  world,  something  of  the  priest's  contemp- 
tuous arraignment  of  material  values,  lingering  in 
Gordon's  mind,  convinced  him  of  the  potential 
folly  of  that  course.  It  would  be  more  practical  to 
sell  back  the  options  to  those  from  whom  they  had 
been  purchased,  at  the  nominal  prices  paid.  He 
had  only  a  vague  idea  of  his  balances  at  the  Stenton 
banks,  the  possibilities  of  the  investments  from 
which  he  received  profit.  He  was  certain,  however, 
that  the  sum  asked  by  Valentine  Simmons  would 
obliterate  his  present  resources.  Yet  he  was  forced 
to  admit  that  it  did  not  seem  exorbitant. 

He  continued  his  altruistic  deliberations  through- 
out the  evening  at  his  dwelling.  It  might  be  well, 
before  investing  such  a  paramount  sum,  to  com- 
municate with  the  Tennessee  and  Northern  Com- 
pany, receive  a  fresh  ratification  of  their  intention. 
Yet  he  could  not  do  that  without  incurring  the 
danger  of  premature  questioning,  investigation.  It 

280 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  281 

was  patent  that  he  would  have  to  be  prepared  to 
make  an  immediate  distribution  of  the  options 
when  his  intention  became  known  in  Green- 
stream.  He  was  aware  that  when  the  coming  of 
a  railroad  to  the  county  became  common  know- 
ledge the  excitement  of  the  valley  would  grow 
intense. 

Again,  it  might  be  better  first  to  organize  the 
timber  of  Greenstream,  so  that  a  harmonious  local 
condition  would  facilitate  all  negotiations  and  avert 
the  danger,  which  Valentine  Simmons  had  pointed 
out,  of  individual  blindness  and  competition.  But, 
in  order  to  accomplish  that,  he  should  have  to  bring 
into  concord  fifty  or  more  wary,  suspicious,  and 
largely  ignorant  adults.  He  should  have  to  deal 
with  swift  and  secret  avarice,  with  vain  golden 
dreams  born  of  years  of  bitter  poverty,  privation, 
ceaseless  and  incredible  toil.  The  magnitude  of 
the  latter  task  appalled  him ;  fact  and  figure  whirled 
in  his  confused  mind.  He  was  standing,  and  he 
suddenly  felt  dizzy,  and  sat  down.  The  giddiness 
vanished,  but  left  him  with  twitching  fingers,  a 
clouded  vision.  He  might  get  them  all  together, 
explain,  persuade.  .  .  .  Goddy  !  it  was  for  their 
good.  They  needn't  be  gross-grained.  There  it 
would  be,  the  offer,  for  them  to  take  or  leave.  But, 
if  they  delayed,  watch  out !  Railroad  people 
couldn't  be  fooled  with.  They  might  get  left:  that 
was  all. 

This,  he  felt,  was  more  than  he  could  undertake, 
more  than  any  reasonable  person  would  ask.  If  he 
paid  Valentine  Simmons  all  that  money,  and  then 
let  them  have  back  their  own  again,  without  a  cent 
to  himself,  they  must  be  content.  They  should  be 


282  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

able  to  bargain  as  well  as  he  —  who  was  getting 
on  and  had  difficulty  in  adding  figures  to  the 
same  amount  twice  —  with  the  Tennessee  and 
Northern. 

The  following  morning  he  departed  for  Stenton. 


XIV 

GORDON  paid  Valentine  Simmons  eighty-nine  thou- 
sand dollars  for  the  latter 's  share  of  the  timber 
options  they  had  held  in  common.  They  were 
seated  in  the  room  in  which  Gordon  conducted 
his  peculiar  transactions.  He  turned  and  placed 
Simmons's  acknowledgment,  the  various  papers  of 
the  dissolved  partnership,  in  the  safe. 

'  That  finishes  all  I  had  in  Stenton,"  he  observed. 

Valentine  Simmons  made  no  immediate  reply. 
He  was  intent,  with  tightly-folded  lips,  on  the 
cheque  in  his  hand.  His  shirt,  as  ever,  was  immacu- 
lately starched,  the  blue  button  was  childlike, 
bland;  but  it  was  cold  without,  and  hot  in  the  room 
where  they  sat,  and  the  colour  on  his  cheeks  resem- 
bled dabs  of  vermilion  on  buffers  of  old  white 
leather ;  the  tufts  of  hair  above  his  ears  had  dwindled 
to  mere  cottony  scraps. 

"  Prompt  and  satisfactory/'  he  said  at  last.  "  I 
tell  you,  Gordon,  you  can  see  as  far  as  another  into  a 
transaction.  Promises  are  of  no  account,  but  value 
received  .  .  ."  He  held  up  the  cheque,  a  strip 
of  pale  orange  paper,  pinched  between  withered 
fingers. 

Suddenly  he  was  in  a  hurry  to  get  away;  he  drew 
his  overcoat  of  close-haired  brown  hide  about  his 
narrow  shoulders  and  trotted  to  the  door,  to  his 
buggy  awaiting  him  at  the  corner  of  the  porch. 

283 


XV 

GORDON  placed  on  the  table  before  him  the  state- 
ments and  accounts  of  his  newly-augmented  options. 
The  papers,  to  his  clerical  inefficiency,  presented 
a  bewildering  mass  of  inexplicable  details  and 
accounts.  He  brought  them,  with  vast  difficulty, 
into  a  rough  order.  In  the  lists  of  the  acreages  of 
timber  controlled  there  were  appended  none  of  the 
names  of  those  from  whom  his  privilege  of  option 
had  been  obtained,  no  note  of  the  slightly- vary  ing 
sums  paid — the  sole,  paramount  facts  to  Gordon 
now.  For  the  establishment  of  these  he  was 
obliged  to  refer  to  the  original  individual  contracts, 
to  compare  and  add  and  check  ofT. 

Old  Pompey  had  conducted  his  transactions 
largely  from  his  buggy,  lending  them  a  speciously 
casual  aspect.  The  options  made  to  him  were 
written  on  slips  of  paper  hastily  torn  from  a  cheap 
note-book,  engrossed  on  yellowing  sheets  of  foolscap 
in  tremulous  Spencerian.  Their  wording  was  in- 
formal, often  strictly  local.  One  granted  privilege 
of  purchase  of  "  the  piney  trees  on  Pap's  and  mine 
but  not  Kenny's  for  nineteen  years."  Another  bore 
above  the  date,  "  In  this  year  of  Jesus  Christ's  holy 
redemption." 

The  sales  made  to  Valentine  Simmons  were,  in- 
variably, formal  in  record,  the  signatures  were  all 
witnessed. 

284 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  285 

It  was  a  slow,  fatiguing  process.  A  number  of 
the  original  vendors,  Gordon  knew,  had  died,  their 
families  were  scattered;  others  had  removed  from 
the  county;  logical  substitutes  had  to  be  evolved. 
The  mere  comparison  of  the  various  entries,  the 
tracing  of  the  tracts  to  the  amounts  involved,  was 
scarcely  within  Gordon's  ability. 

He  laboured  through  the  swiftly-falling  dusk  into 
the  night,  and  took  up  the  task  early  the  following 
morning.  A  large  part  of  the  work  had  to  be  done 
a  second,  third,  time — his  brain,  unaccustomed  to 
concentrated  mental  processes,  soon  grew  weary;  he 
repeated  aloud  a  fact  of  figures  without  the  least 
comprehension  of  the  sounds  formed  by  his  lips,  and 
he  would  say  them  again  and  again,  until  he  had 
forced  into  his  blurring  mind  some  significance, 
some  connection. 

He  would  fall  asleep  over  his  table,  his  scattered 
papers,  in  the  grey  daylight,  or  in  the  radiance  of  a 
large  glass  lamp,  and  stay  immobile  for  hours,  while 
his  dog  lay  at  his  feet,  or,  uneasy,  nosed  his  sharp 
relaxed  knees. 

No  one  would  seek  him,  enter  his  house,  break  his 
exhausted  slumbers.  Lying  on  an  out-flung  arm,  his 
head,  with  its  sunken,  closed  eyes,  loose  lips,  seemed 
hardly  more  alive  than  the  photographed  clay  of 
Mrs.  Hollidew  in  the  sitting-room.  He  would  wake 
slowly,  confused ;  the  dog  would  lick  his  inert  hand, 
and  they  would  go  together  in  search  of  food  to  the 
kitchen. 

On  the  occasions  when  he  was  forced  to  go  to  the 
post-office,  the  store,  he  went  hurriedly,  secretively, 
in  a  coat  as  green,  as  aged,  as  Pompey's  own. 

He  was  anxious  to  finish  his  labour,  to  be  released 


286  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

from  its  responsibility,  its  weight.  It  appeared 
tremendously  difficult  to  consummate;  it  had 
developed  far  beyond  his  expectation,  his  original 
conception.  The  thought  pursued  him  that  some 
needy  individual  would  be  overlooked,  his  claim 
neglected.  No  one  must  be  defrauded;  all,  all,  must 
have  their  own,  must  have  their  chance.  He, 
Gordon  Makimmon,  was  seeing  that  they  had,  with 
Lettice's  money  .  .  .  because  .  .  .  because  .  .  . 

The  leaves  had  been  swept  from  the  trees;  the 
mountains  were  gaunt,  rocky,  against  swift  low 
clouds.  There  was  no  sunlight  except  for  a  brief 
sullen  red  fire  in  the  west  at  the  end  of  day.  At 
night  the  winds  blew  bleakly  down  Greenstream 
valley.  Shutters  were  locked,  shades  drawn,  in  the 
village;  night  obliterated  it  absolutely.  No  one 
passed,  after  dark,  on  the  road  above. 

He  seemed  to  be  toiling  alone  at  a  hopeless,  in- 
terminable task,  isolated  in  the  midst  of  a  vast  un- 
inhabited desolation,  in  a  black  chasm  filled  with 
the  sound  of  whirling  leaves  and  threshing  branches. 

The  morning,  breaking  late  and  grey  and  cold, 
appeared  equally  difficult,  barren,  vain.  The 
kitchen  stove,  continually  neglected,  went  con- 
tinually out,  the  grate  became  clogged  with  ashes, 
the  chimney  refused  to  draw.  He  relit  it,  on  his 
knees,  the  dog  patiently  at  his  side;  he  fanned  the 
kindling  into  flames,  poured  on  the  coal,  the  shining 
black  dust  coruscating  in  instant  gold  tracery.  He 
bedded  the  horse  more  warmly,  fed  him  in  a  species 
of  mechanical,  inattentive  regularity. 

Finally  the  list  of  timber  options  he  possessed  was 
completed,  with  the  names  of  their  original  owners 
and  the  amounts  for  which  they  had  been  bought. 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  287 

A  deep  sense  of  satisfaction,  of  accomplishment, 
took  the  place  of  his  late  anxiety.  Even  the  weather 
changed,  became  complacent — the  valley  was  filled 
with  the  blue  mirage  of  Indian  summer,  the  apparent 
return  of  a  warm,  beneficent  season.  The  decline  of 
the  year  seemed  to  halt,  relent,  in  still,  sunny  hours. 
It  was  as  though  nature,  death,  decay,  had  been 
arrested,  set  at  naught;  as  though  man  might  dwell 
for  ever  amid  peaceful  memories,  slumbrous  vistas, 
lost  in  that  valley  hidden  by  shimmering  veils  from 
all  the  implacable  forces  that  bring  the  alternation 
of  cause  and  effect  upon  subservient  worlds  and  men. 


XVI 

As  usual,  on  Saturday  noon  Gordon  found  his  copy 
of  the  weekly  Bugle  projecting  from  his  numbered 
compartment  at  the  post-office.  There  were  no 
letters.  He  thrust  the  paper  into  his  pocket  and 
returned  to  the  village  street.  The  day  was  warm, 
but  the  mists  that  had  enveloped  the  peaks  were 
dissolving,  the  sky  was  sparkling,  clear.  By 
evening,  Gordon  decided,  it  would  be  cold  again, 
and  then  the  long,  rigorous  winter  would  close 
upon  the  valley  and  mountains. 

He  looked  forward  to  it  with  relief,  as  a  period  of 
somnolence  and  prolonged  rest — the  mental  stress 
and  labour  of  the  past  days  had  wearied  him  of  the 
active  contact  with  men  and  events.  He  was  glad 
that  they  were,  practically,  solved,  at  an  end — the 
towering  columns  of  figures,  the  perplexing  problems 
of  equity,  the  far-reaching  decisions. 

In  rehearsing  his  course  it  seemed  impossible  to 
have  hit  upon  a  better,  a  more  comprehensive,  plan. 
There  was  hardly  a  family  he  knew  of  in  the  valley 
of  which  some  member  might  not  now  have  his 
chance.  That,  an  opportunity  for  all,  was  what 
Gordon  was  providing. 

A  number  of  horses  were  already  hitched  along 
the  rail  outside  Valentine  Simmons  'a  store ;  soon  the 
rail  would  hardly  afford  room  for  another  animal. 

288 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  289 

He  passed  the  Presbyterian  Church,  Dr.  Pelliter's 
drugstore  and  dwelling,  and  approached  his  home. 
Seen  from  the  road,  the  long  roof  was  variously 
coloured  from  various  additions ;  there  were  regions 
of  rusty  tar-paper,  of  tin  with  blistered  remnants  of 
dull  red  paint,  of  dark,  irregular  shingling. 

It  was  a  dwelling  weather-beaten  and  worn,  the 
latest  addition,  already  discoloured  by  the  elements, 
blended  with  the  nondescript  whole.  It  was  like 
himself,  Gordon  Makimmon  recognized;  in  him,  as 
in  the  house  below,  things  tedious  or  terrible  had 
happened,  the  echoes  of  which  lingered  within  the 
old  walls,  within  his  brain.  .  .  .  Now  it  was  good 
that  winter  was  coming,  when  they  would  lie  through 
the  long  nights  folded  in  snow,  in  beneficent 
quietude. 

There  were  some  final  details  to  complete  in  his 
papers.  He  took  off  his  overcoat,  laid  it  upon  the 
safe,  and  flung  the  Bugle  on  the  table,  where  it  fell 
half  open  and  neglected.  The  names  traced  by  his 
scratching  pen  brought  clearly  before  him  the  in- 
dividuals designated:  Elias  Wellbogast  had  a  long, 
tangled  grey  beard  and  a  gaze  that  peered  anxiously 
through  a  settling  blindness.  Thirty  acres — eight 
dollars  an  acre.  P.  Ville  was  a  swarthy  foreigner, 
called,  in  Greenstream,  the  Portugee;  every  crop  he 
planted  grew  as  if  by  magic.  Old  Matthew  Zane 
would  endeavour  to  borrow  from  Gordon  the 
money  with  which  to  repurchase  the  option  he  had 
granted. 

He  worked  steadily,  while  the  rectangles  of  sun- 
light cast  through  the  windows  on  the  floor 
shortened  and  shifted  their  place.  He  worked  until 
the  figures  swam  before  his  eyes,  when  he  laid  aside 

19 


290  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

the  pen  and  picked  up  the  Bugle,  glancing  carelessly 
over  the  first  page. 

His  attention  immediately  concentrated  on  the 
headlines  of  the  left-hand  column;  his  gaze  had 
caught  the  words,  "  Tennessee  and  Northern." 

"  Goddy  !"  he  exclaimed  aloud;  "  they've  got  it 
in  the  Bugle,  the  railroad  coming  and  all." 

He  was  glad  that  the  information  had  been 
printed :  it  would  materially  assist  in  the  announce- 
ment and  carrying  out  of  his  plan.  He  folded  the 
paper  more  compactly,  leaned  back  in  his  chair  to 
read  .  .  .  Why  !  .  .  .  Why,  damn  it !  they  had  it 
all  wrong;  they  were  entirely  mistaken;  they  had 
printed  a  deliberate — a  deliberate- 
He  stopped  reading  to  marshal  his  surprised  and 
scattered  faculties .  Then ,  with  a  rigid  countenance , 
he  pursued  the  article  to  the  end.  When  he  had 
finished,  his  gaze  remained  subconsciously  fastened 
upon  the  paper,  upon  the  advertisement  of  a  man 
who  paid  for  and  removed  the  bodies  of  dead 
animals. 

Gordon  Makimmon's  lips  formed,  barely  audibly, 
a  name:  he  whispered,  "  Valentine  Simmons." 

At  last  the  storekeeper  had  utterly  ruined  him. 
He  raised  the  paper  from  where  it  had  fallen  and 
read  the  article  once  more.  It  was  a  floridly  and 
violently  written  account  of  how  a  projected  branch 
of  the  Tennessee  and  Northern  System  through 
Greenstream  valley,  long  striven  for  by  solid  and 
public-spirited  citizens  of  the  county,  had  been  pre- 
vented by  the  hidden  avarice  of  a  well-known  local 
figure,  an  ex-stage  driver. 

The  latter,  the  account  proceeded,  with  a  fore- 
knowledge of  the  projected  transportation,  had 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  291 

secured  for  little  or  nothing  an  option  on  practically 
all  the  desirable  timber  of  the  valley,  and  had  held 
it  at  such  a  high  figure  that  the  railroad  had  been 
forced  to  abandon  the  scheme. 

"  What  Greenstream  thus  loses  through  blind 
gluttony  cannot  be  enumerated  by  a  justly  incensed 
pen.  The  loss  to  us,  to  our  sons  and  daughters.  .  .  . 
This  secret  and  sinister  schemer  hid  his  purpose,  it 
now  appears,  in  a  cloak  of  seeming  benevolence. 
We  recall  a  feeling  of  doubt,  which  we  generously 
and  wrongfully  suppressed  at  the  time,  concerning 
the  motives  of  such  ill-considered  .  .  ." 

'  Valentine  Simmons/'  he  repeated  harshly.  He 
controlled  the  Bugle  in  addition  to  countless  other 
industries  and  interests  of  Greenstream.  This 
article  could  not  have  been  printed  without 
Simmons 's  cognizance,  his  co-operation.  It  was 
the  crown  of  his  long  and  victorious  struggle  with 
Gordon  Makimmon.  The  storekeeper  had  sold 
him  the  options  knowing  that  the  railroad  was  not 
coming  to  the  valley — some  inhibition  had  arisen 
in  the  negotiations — he  had  destroyed  him  with 
Gordon's  own  blindness,  credulity.  And  he  had 
walked  like  a  rat  into  the  trap. 

The  bitter  irony  of  it  rose  in  a  wave  of  black  mirth 
to  his  twisted  lips;  he,  Gordon  Makimmon,  was 
exposed  as  an  avaricious  schemer  with  the  pros- 
pects of  Greenstream,  with  men's  hopes,  with  their 
chances;  yet  Simmons,  it  was  plainly  intimated, 
had  laboured  faithfully  and  in  vain  for  the  people. 

He  rose  and  shook  his  clenched  hands  above  his 
head.  "  If  I  had  only  shot  him  !"  he  cried.  "  If 
I  had  only  shot  him  at  first !" 

It  was  too  late  now:  nothing  could  be  gained 


292  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

by  crushing  the  flickering  vitality  from  that  aged 
pinkish  husk.  It  was,  Gordon  dimly  realized,  a 
greater  power  than  that  contained  by  a  single  in- 
dividual, by  Valentine  Simmons,  that  had  beaten 
him.  It  was  a  stupendous  and  materialistic  force 
against  the  metallic  sweep  of  which  he  had  cast 
himself  in  vain — it  was  the  power,  the  unconquer- 
able godhead,  of  gold. 

The  thought  of  the  storekeeper  was  lost  in  the 
realization  of  the  collapse  of  all  that  he  had 
laboriously  planned .  The  destruction  was  absolute ; 
not  an  inner  desire  nor  need  escaped;  not  a  projec- 
tion remained.  The  papers  before  him,  so  pain- 
fully comprehended,  with  such  a  determination  of 
justice,  were  but  the  visible  marks  of  the  futility, 
the  waste,  of  his  dreaming. 

He  sank  heavily  into  the  chair  before  his  table. 
He  recalled  the  younger  Entriken's  smooth  lies,  the 
debauchery  of  his  money  by  the  Nickleses;  William 
Vibard's  accordions  mocked  him  again  .  .  .  all, 
all  had  been  in  vain,  worthless.  General  Jackson 
rose  and  laid  his  long,  shaggy,  heavy  head  upon 
Gordon's  knee. 

"We're  done  for!"  he  told  the  dog;  "we're 
finished  this  time.  Everything  has  gone  to  hell." 


XVII 

HE  felt  strangely  lost  in  the  sudden  emptiness  of 
his  existence,  an  existence  that,  only  a  few  hours 
before,  had  welcomed  the  prospect  of  release  from 
its  bewildering  fullness.  He  had  gathered  the 
results  of  his  slowly-formulating  consciousness,  his 
tragic  memory,  to  a  final  resolve  in  the  return  of 
the  options  to  a  county  enhanced  by  the  coming 
of  a  railroad  whose  benefits  he  would  distribute  to 
all.  And  now  the  railroad  was  no  more  than  a 
myth,  it  had  vanished  into  thin,  false  air,  carrying 
with  it  ... 

He  swept  his  hand  through  the  papers  of  his  vain 
endeavour,  bringing  a  sudden  confusion  upon  their 
order.  His  arm  struck  the  glass  of  shot,  and,  for  a 
short  space,  there  was  a  continuous  sharp  patter  on 
the  floor.  He  rose  and  paced  from  wall  to  wall,  a 
bent  shape  with  open,  hanging  hands  and  a 
straggling  grey  wisp  of  hair  across  his  dry,  bony 
forehead. 

Footsteps  crossed  the  porch,  a  knock  fell  upon 
the  door,  and  Gordon  responded  without  raising 
his  head. 

It  was  Simeon  Caley. 

He  had  not  been  in  the  house  since,  together  with 
his  wife,  he  had  left  it  after  Lettice's  death.  Sim's 
stained  felt  hat  was  pushed  back  from  a  wet  brow, 
his  gestures  were  urgent. 

293 


294  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

"  Get  your  horse  in  the  buggy  !"  he  exclaimed; 
'  I'll  help  you.    Light  out." 

'Light  out'?"    Gordon's  gaze  centred  upon 
the  other's  excitement.      '  Where  ?" 

'  That  doesn't  make  much  difference,  so's  you 
light.  The  County's  mad  clear  through,  and  it's 
pretty  near  all  in  the  village."  Sim  turned  to  the 
door.  '  I'll  help  you.  Aid  then — drive." 

"  I  ain't  agoing  to  drive  anywhere,"  Gordon  told 
him;  "I'm  where  I  belong." 

'  You  don't  belong  in  Greenstream  after  that 
piece  in  the  Bugle."    His  hand  rested  on  the  knob. 
'  Tie  up  anything  you  need;  I'll  hitch  the  buggy." 

"Don't  you  touch  a  strap,"  Gordon  commanded; 
"  because  I  won't  put  a  foot  in  her." 

"  It'll  all  settle  down  in  a  little ;  then  maybe  you 
can  come  back." 

'What '11  settle  down?" 

'  Why,  the  deal  with  the  railroad." 

"  Sim,"  Gordon  demanded  sharply,  "  you  never 
believed  that  in  the  paper  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  b'lieve,"  the  other  replied 
evasively;  "  a  good  many  say  those  are  the  facts, 
that  you  have  the  options." 

"  Get  out  of  here  !"  Gordon  shouted  in  a  sudden 
moving  rage;  "  and  stay  out;  don't  come  back  when 
you  find  what's  what." 

"  I  c'n  do  that.  And  I'll  point  out  to  you  we  just 
came  for  Lett  ice,  we  never  took  nothing  of  yours. 
I  only  stopped  now  to  warn  you  away  .  .  .  I  '11  hitch 
her  up,  Gordon;  you  get  down  the  road." 

"  It's  mine  now,  whose  ever  it  was  a  while  back. 
I've  paid  for  it.  You  go." 

Simeon  Caley  lingered  reluctantly  at  the  door. 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  295 

Gordon  stood  rigidly;  his  eyes  were  bright  points 
of  wrath;  his  arm  rose,  with  a  finger  indicating 
the  world  without.  Sim  slowly  opened  the  door, 
stepped  out  upon  the  porch;  he  stayed  a  moment 
more,  then  closed  himself  from  sight. 


XVIII 

THE  stir  and  heat  of  Sim's  presence  died  quickly 
away;  the  house  was  without  a  sound;  General 
Jackson  lay  like  an  effigy  in  ravelled  black  and 
buff  wool.  Gordon  assembled  the  scattered  papers 
on  the  table  into  an  orderly  pile.  He  moved  into 
the  kitchen,  abstractedly  surveyed  the  familiar 
walls;  he  walked  through  the  house  to  the  sitting- 
room,  where  he  stood  lost  in  thought : 

The  County  was  "mad  clear  through";  Sim, 
supposing  him  guilty,  had  warned  him  to  escape, 
advised  him  to  run  away.  .  .  .  That  had  never 
been  a  habit  of  the  Makimmons:  he  would  not 
form  it  now,  at  the  end.  He  was  considering,  not 
the  mere  probability  of  being  shot,  but  the  greater 
disaster  that  had  already  smashed  the  spring  of 
his  living.  His  sensibilities  were  deadened  to  any 
catastrophe  of  the  flesh. 

At  the  same  time  he  was  conscious  of  a  mount- 
ing rage  at  being  so  gigantically  misunderstood,  and 
his  anger  mingled  with  a  bitter  contempt  for  Simeon 
Caley,  for  a  people  so  blind,  so  credulous,  so  help- 
less in  the  grasp  of  a  single  shrewd  individual. 

He  heard  subdued  voices  without,  and,  through  a 
window,  saw  that  the  sweep  by  the  stream  was 
filling  with  a  sullen  concourse  of  men;  he  saw  their 
faces,  grim  and  resentful,  turned  toward  the  house; 

296 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  297 

the  sun  struck  upon  the  dusty  black  expanse  of 
their  hats. 

He  walked  deliberately  through  the  bedroom  and 
out  upon  the  porch.  A  sudden  profound  silence 
met  his  appearance,  a  shifting  of  feet,  a  concerted 
bald,  inimical  stare. 

'  Well  ?"      Gordon      Makimmon      demanded. 
'  You've  read  the  Bugle.    Well  ? " 

He  heard  a  murmur  from  the  back  of  the  throng, 
"  Give  it  to  him,  we  didn't  come  here  to  talk/' 

'  Give  it  to  him,'  "  Gordon  repeated  thinly.  "  I 
see  Ben  Nickles  there,  behind  that  hulk  from  the 
South  Fork;  Nickles'll  do  it  and  glad.  It  will  wipe 
off  the  two  hundred  dollars  he  had  out  of  me  for  a 
new  roof.  Or  there's  Entriken  if  Nickles  is  afraid: 
his  note  falls  due  again  soon." 

'  What  about  the  railroad  ?" 

'  WThat  about  it  ?  Greenstream's  been  settled  for 
eighty  years:  why  haven't  you  moved  around  and 
got  one  ?  Do  you  expect  the  President  of  the 
Tennessee  and  Northern  to  come  up  and  beg  you  to 
let  them  lay  tracks  to  your  doors  ?  If  you'd  been 
men  you'd  had  one  long  ago,  but  you're  just — just 
stock.  I'd  ruther  be  an  outlaw  on  the  mountain 
than  any  of  you;  I'd  ruther  be  what  you  think  I 
am;  by  God  !"  he  cried  out  of  his  bitterness  of 
spirit,  "  but  I'd  ruther  be  Valentine  Simmons  !" 

"  Have  you  got  the  options  ? "  Entriken  demanded 
— "  all  them  that  Pompey  had  and  you  bought  ?" 

Gordon  vanished  into  the  house,  and  reappeared 
with  the  original  contracts  in  his  grasp. 

"  Here  they  are,"  he  exclaimed;  "  I  paid  eighty- 
nine  thousand  dollars  to  get  them,  and  they're  worth 
— that."  He  flung  them  with  a  quick  gesture  into 


298  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

the  air,  and  the  rising  wind  scattered  them  fluttering 
over  the  sere  grass.  "  Scrabble  for  them  in  the 
dirt." 

1  You  c'n  throw  them  away  now  the  railroad's 
left  you." 

"  And  before/'  Gordon  Makimmon  demanded, 
"  do  you  think  I  couldn't  have  gutted  you  if  I'd  had 
a  mind  to  ?  do  you  think  anybody  couldn't  gut  you  ? 
Why,  you've  been  the  mutton  of  every  little  store- 
keeper that  let  you  off  with  a  pound  of  coffee,  of  any 
note  shaver  that  could  write.  The  Bugle  says  I  let 
out  money  to  cover  up  the  railway  deal,  but  that'd 
be  no  better  than  giving  it  to  stop  the  sight  of  the 
blind.  God  A 'mighty  !  this  transportation  business 
you're  only  whining  about  now  was  laid  out  five 
years  ago ;  the  company's  agents  have  driven  in  and 
out  twenty  times.  .  .  ." 

'''  Let  him  have  it !" 

"  Spite  yourselves  !"  Gordon  Makimmon  cried; 
"  it's  all  that's  left  for  you." 

General  Jackson  moved  forward  over  the  porch. 
He  growled  in  response  to  the  menace  of  the  throng 
on  the  sod,  and  jumped  down  to  their  level.  A 
sudden  dangerous  murmur  rose: 

;<  The  two  hundred  dollar  dog  !  The  joke  on 
Greenstream  !" 

He  walked  alertly  forward,  his  ears  pricked  up 
on  his  long  skull. 

"  C'm  here,  General,"  Gordon  called,  suddenly 
urgent;  "  c'm  back  here." 

The  dog  hesitated,  turned  toward  his  master, 
when  a  heavy  stick,  whirling  out  of  the  press  of 
men,  struck  the  animal  across  the  upper  forelegs. 
He  fell  forward  with  a  sharp  whine,  and  attempted 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  299 

vainly  to  rise.  Both  legs  were  broken.  He  looked 
back  again  at  Gordon,  and  then,  growling,  strove 
to  reach  their  assailants. 

Gordon  Makimmon  started  forward  with  a  rasp- 
ing oath,  but,  before  he  could  reach  the  ground, 
General  Jackson  had  propelled  himself  to  the  fringe 
of  humanity.  He  made  a  last  convulsive  effort  to 
rise,  his  jaws  snapped.  ...  A  short  iron  bar 
descended  upon  his  head. 

Gordon's  face  became  instantly,  irrevocably,  the 
shrunken  face  of  an  old  man. 

The  clustered  men  with  the  dead,  mangled  body 
of  the  dog  before  them;  the  serene,  sliding  stream 
beyond;  the  towering  east  range  bathed  in  keen 
sunlight,  blurred,  mingled,  in  his  vision.  He  put 
out  a  hand  against  one  of  the  porch  supports — a 
faded  shape  of  final  and  irremediable  sorrow. 

He  exhibited  neither  the  courage  of  resistance 
nor  the  superiority  of  contempt;  he  offered, 
apparently,  nothing  material  whatsoever  to  satisfy 
the  vengeance  of  a  populace  cunningly  defrauded 
of  their  just  opportunities  and  profits;  he  seemed 
to  be  no  more  coloured  with  life,  no  more  instinct 
with  sap,  than  the  crackling  leaves  blown  by  the 
increasing  wind  about  the  uneasy  feet  on  the  grass. 

He  lipped  a  short,  unintelligible  period,  gazing 
intent  and  troubled  at  the  throng .  He  shivered  per- 
ceptibly: under  the  hard  blue  sky  the  wind  swept 
with  the  sting  of  an  icy  knout.  Then,  turning  his 
obscure,  infinitely  dejected  back  upon  the  silent 
menace  of  the  bitter,  sallow  countenances,  the  harsh 
angular  forms,  of  Greenstream,  he  walked  slowly 
to  the  door.  He  paused,  his  hand  upon  the  knob, 
as  if  arrested  by  a  memory,  a  realization.  The  door 


300  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

opened;  the  house  absorbed  him,  presented  un- 
broken its  weather-worn  face. 

A  deep,  concerted  sigh  escaped  from  the  men 
without,  as  though,  with  the  vanishing  of  that 
bowed  and  shabby  frame,  they  had  seen  vanish  their 
last  chance  for  reprisal,  for  hope. 


XIX 

THE  cold  sharpened;  the  sky,  toward  evening, 
glittered  like  an  emerald;  the  earth  was  black, 
it  resembled  a  ball  of  iron  spinning  in  the  diffused 
green  radiance  of  a  dayless  and  glacial  void.  The 
stream  before  the  Makimnion  dwelling  moved 
without  a  sound  under  banked  ledges  of  ice. 

A  thread  of  light  appeared  against  the  fa§ade  of 
the  house;  it  widened  to  an  opening  door,  a  brief 
glimpse  of  a  bald  interior,  and  then  revealed  the 
figure  of  a  man  with  a  lantern  upon  the  porch.  The 
light  descended  to  the  ground,  wavered  toward  a 
spot  where  it  disclosed  the  rigid  dead  shape  of  a 
dog.  An  uncertain  hand  followed  the  swell  of  the 
ribs  to  the  sunken  side,  attempted  to  free  the  clotted 
hair  on  a  crushed  skull.  The  body  was  carefully 
raised  and  enveloped  in  a  sack,  laboriously  borne  to 
the  edge  of  the  silent  stream. 

There  it  was  lost  in  the  dark  as  the  light  moved 
to  where  it  cast  a  limited,  swinging  illumination  over 
the  wall  of  a  shed.  It  returned  to  the  stiffly  dis- 
tended sack,  and  there  followed  the  ring  of  metal  on 
the  iron-like  earth.  In  the  pale  circle  of  the 
lantern  a  figure  stooped  and  rose,  a  figure  with  an 
intent,  furrowed  countenance. 

The  digging  took  a  long  while,  the  frozen  clods 
of  earth  fell  with  a  scattering  thud,  the  shadow  of 

301 


302  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

the  hole  deepened  by  imperceptible  degrees.  Once 
the  labour  stopped,  the  sack  was  lowered  into  the 
ragged  grave;  but  the  opening  was  too  shallow,  and 
the  rise  and  fall  of  the  solitary  figure  recommenced. 

The  sack  was  finally  covered  from  sight,  from 
the  appalling  frigidity  and  space  of  the  sky,  from  the 
frozen  surface  of  the  earth  wrapped  in  stillness,  in 
night.  The  clods  were  scraped  back  into  the  hole, 
stamped  into  an  integral  mass ;  the  spade  obliterated 
all  trace  of  what  lay  hidden  beneath,  returned  to  the 
clay  from  which  it  had  been  momentarily  animated 
by  the  enigmatic  flitting  spark  of  life. 

The  lantern  retraced  its  path  to  the  shed,  to  the 
porch;  where,  in  a  brief  thread  of  light,  in  the 
shutting  of  a  door,  it  disappeared. 


XX 

GORDON  met  Valentine  Simmons  squarely  for  the 
first  time  since  the  collapse  of  his  laborious  plan- 
ning outside  the  post-office.  The  latter,  with  a 
senile  and  pleased  chuckle,  tapped  him  on  the 
chest . 

'''  Teach  you  to  be  provident,  Gordon,"  he  said 
in  his  high,  rasping  voice;  "  teach  you  to  see  further 
than  another  through  a  transaction;  as  far  ain't  near 
enough;  most  don't  see  at  all." 

The  anger  had  evaporated  from  Gordon  Makim- 
mon's  parched  being :  the  storekeeper,  he  recognized, 
was  sharper  than  all  the  rest  of  the  County  com- 
bined; even  now  the  raddled  old  man  was  more 
acute  than  the  young  and  active  intelligences.  He 
nodded  and  would  have  passed  on,  but  the  store- 
keeper, with  a  ponderous  furred  glove,  halted  him. 

'  We  haven't  had  any  satisfaction  lately  with  the 
Stenton  stage,"  he  shrilled;  "  and  I  made  out  to  ask 
— you  can  take  it  or  leave  it — if  you'd  drive  again  ? 
It  might  be  a  kind  of — he  !  he  ! — relax  from  your 
securities  and  investments." 

Gordon,  without  an  immediate  reply,  regarded 
him.  He  thought,  in  sudden  approbation  of  a  part, 
at  least,  of  the  past,  that  he  could  drive  a  stage  better 
than  any  other  man  in  a  hundred,  in  a  thousand; 
there,  at  least,  no  humiliating  failure  had  overtaken 

303 


304  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

his  prowess  with  whip  and  reins.  The  old  occupa- 
tion, the  monotonous,  restful  miles  of  road  sweeping 
back  under  the  wheels,  the  pleasant,  casual  detach- 
ment of  the  passengers,  the  pride  of  accomplish- 
ment, irresistibly  appealed  to  him. 

Valentine  Simmons 's  rheumy  eyes  interrogated 
him  doubtfully  above  the  fixed  dry  colour  of  his 
fallen  cheeks. 

'"  By  God,  Valentine  !"  Gordon  exclaimed,  "  I'll 
do  it;  I'll  drive  her,  and  right,  too.  It  takes 
experience  to  carry  a  stage  fifty  miles  over  these 
mountains  day  and  day ;  it  takes  a  man  that  knows 
his  horses,  when  to  slack  up  on  'em  and  when  to 
swing  the  leather.  .  .  .  I'm  ready  any  time  you  say." 
'  The  stage  goes  out  from  Greenstream  to- 
morrow; you  can  take  it  the  trip  after.  Money 
same  as  before.  And,  Gordon — he  !  he  ! — don't 
you  go  and  lend  it  out  at  four  per  cent.;  fifty's 
talking,  but  seventy's  good.  Pompey  knew  the 
trick;  he'd  have  dressed  you  down  to  an  undershirt, 
Pompey  would." 

Gordon  returned  slowly,  absorbed  in  new  con- 
siderations, to  his  dwelling.  It  was  obvious  that  he 
could  not  live  there  alone  and  drive  the  Stenton 
stage ;  formerly  Clare  had  attended  to  the  house  for 
him,  but  now  there  was  no  one  to  keep  the  stoves  lit, 
to  attend  to  the  countless  daily  necessities.  This 
was  Tuesday — he  would  take  the  stage  out  on 
Thursday:  he  might  as  well  get  together  a  few 
necessities  and  close  the  place  at  once. 

"I'll  shut  her  right  in,"  he  said  aloud  in  the 
empty,  echoing  kitchen. 

He  decided  to  touch  nothing  within.  In  the  sit- 
ting-room the  swift  obscurity  of  the  closing  shutters 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  305 

obliterated  its  familiar  features — the  table  with  the 
lamp  and  pink  celluloid  thimble,  the  phonograph, 
the  faded  photograph  of  what  had  been  Mrs.  Holli- 
dew.  The  darkness  spread  to  the  bedroom  that  had 
been  Lettice's  and  his :  the  curtained  wardrobe  was 
drawn,  the  bed  lay  smoothly  sheeted  with  the  quilt 
folded  brightly  at  the  foot,  one  of  the  many  small 
glass  lamps  of  the  house  stood  filled  upon  the  bureau. 
The  iron  safe  was  eclipsed,  the  pens  upright  in  the 
glass  of  shot,  the  kitchen  and  spaces  beyond. 

Finally,  depositing  an  ancient  bag  of  crumbling 
leather  on  the  porch,  he  locked  himself  out.  He 
moved  the  bag  to  the  back  of  the  buggy  and,  hitch- 
ing the  horse  into  the  worn  gear,  drove  up  the 
incline  to  the  public  road,  to  the  village,  without 
once  turning  his  head. 


XXI 

HE  rose  at  five  on  Thursday  and  consumed  a 
hasty  breakfast  by  a  blur  of  artificial  light  in  the 
deserted  hotel  dining-room.  It  was  pitch  black 
without,  the  air  heavy  with  moisture  and  pene- 
trating. He  led  the  horses  from  the  shed  under 
which  he  had  hitched  them  to  the  stage,  and  climbed 
with  his  lantern  into  the  long-familiar  place  by  the 
whip.  A  light  streamed  from  the  filmy  window  of 
the  post-office,  falling  upon  tarnished  nutcrackers 
and  picks  in  a  faded  plush-lined  box  ranged  behind 
the  glass.  Gordon  could  see  the  dark  moving  bulk 
of  the  postmaster  within.  The  leather  mail  bags, 
slippery  in  the  wet  atmosphere,  were  strapped  in  the 
rear,  and  Gordon  was  tightening  the  reins  when  he 
was  hailed  by  a  man  running  over  the  road.  It  was 
Simmons 's  clerk. 

"  The  old  man  says/'  he  shot  between  laboured 
breaths,  "  to  keep  a  watch  on  Buck.  Buckley's 
coming  back  with  you  to-morrow.  He's  been  down 
to  the  hospital  for  a  spell.  There  ain't  liable  to  be 
anybody  else  on  the  stage  this  time  of  year." 

The  horses  walked  swiftly,  almost  without 
guidance,  over  the  obscured  way.  The  stage 
mounted,  turning  over  the  long  ascent  to  the  crown 
of  the  east  range.  Gordon  put  out  the  lantern. 
A  faint  grey  diluted  the  dark;  the  night  sank  thinly 

306 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  307 

to  morning,  a  morning  overcast  with  sluggish 
clouds;  the  bare  trees,  growing  slowly  perceptible, 
dripped  with  moisture;  a  treacherous  film  of  mud 
overlaid  the  adamantine  road. 

The  day  broke  inexpressibly  featureless  and 
dreary.  The  stage  dropped  to  bald  brown  valleys, 
soggy  fields  and  clear,  hurrying  streams;  it  rose 
deliberately  to  heights  blurred  in  aqueous  vapours. 
The  moisture  remained  suspended  throughout  the 
day ;  the  grey  pall  hid  Stenton  as  he  drove  up  to  the 
tavern  that  formed  his  depot  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  city. 

Later,  in  the  solitude  of  his  room,  he  heard  the 
hesitating  patter  of  rain  on  the  roof.  He  thought, 
stretching  his  weary  frame  on  the  rigorous  bed,  that 
if  it  turned  cold  through  the  night,  the  frozen  road 
would  be  dangerous  to-morrow. 


XXII 

BUCKLEY  SIMMONS  was  late  in  arriving  from  the 
hospital,  and  it  was  past  seven  before  the  stage  de- 
parted for  Greenstream.  Buckley  sat  immediately 
behind  Gordon  Makimmon;  his  head,  muffled  in  a 
long  woollen  scarf,  showed  only  his  dull,  unwitting 
gaze. 

They  rapidly  left  the  dank  stone  streets  and 
houses.  The  smoke  ascending  from  the  waterworks 
was  no  greyer  than  the  day.  The  rain  fell  in  small, 
chill,  gusty  sweeps. 

Gordon  Makimmon  settled  resolutely  to  the  long 
drive ;  he  was  oblivious  of  the  miles  of  sodden  road 
stretching  out  behind,  he  was  not  aware  of  the  pale, 
dripping  wintry  landscape — he  was  lost  in  a  con- 
tinuous train  of  memories  wheeling  bright  and 
distant  through  his  mind.  He  was  looking  back 
upon  the  features  of  the  past  as  he  might  have  looked 
at  a  series  of  dissolving  pictures,  his  interest  in 
which  was  solely  that  of  spectator. 

They  were  without  unity,  unintelligible  in  the 
light  of  any  concerted  purpose  or  result.  They 
were,  however,  highly  pleasant,  or  amazingly 
inexplicable.  For  example: 

His  wife,  Lettice — how  young  she  was,  smiling  at 
him  from  the  sunny  grass  !  She  walked  happily 
toward  him,  with  her  shawl  about  her  shoulders, 

308 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  309 

but  she  didn't  reach  him;  she  was  sitting  in  the 
rocking  chair  on  the  porch  .  .  .  the  day  faded,  she 
was  singing  a  little  throaty  song,  sewing  upon  a  little 
square  of  white — she  was  gone  as  swiftly,  as  utterly, 
as  a  shadow.  The  shape  of  Meta  Beggs,  animated 
with  incomprehensible  gestures,  took  its  place  in  the 
procession  of  his  memories.  She,  grimacing,  came 
alike  to  naught,  vanished.  All  stopped  for  a 
moment  and  then  disappeared,  leaving  no  trace 
behind. 

He  mechanically  arrested  the  horses  before  the 
isolated  buildings  that  formed  the  midday  halt. 

Buckley  Simmons,  crouching  low  over  the  table, 
consumed  his  dinner  with  formless  guttural  appro- 
bation. The  place  above  his  forehead,  where  he 
had  been  struck  by  the  stone,  was  puckered  and 
dark.  He  raised  his  eyes — the  unquenchable 
hatred  of  Gordon  Makimmon  flared  momentarily 
on  his  vacuous  countenance  like  the  flame  of  a 
match  lit  in  the  wind. 

Once  more  on  the  road,  the  rain  stopped,  the  cold 
increased ;  high  above  the  earth  the  masses  of  cloud 
gathered  wind-herded  in  the  south.  The  dripping 
from  the  trees  ceased,  the  black  branches  took  on  a 
faint  glitter;  the  distant  crash  of  a  falling  limb 
sounded  from  the  woods. 

Gordon,  doubting  whether  the  horses'  shoes  had 
been  lately  roughed,  descended,  but,  to  his  surprise, 
found  that  the  scoring  had  been  properly  main- 
tained, in  spite  of  the  fact  that  it  had  not  had  his 
attention.  He  had  little  cause  to  swing  the  heavy 
whip — the  oft  horse,  a  raw-boned  animal  coloured 
yellowish- white,  never  ceased  pulling  valiantly  on 
the  traces;  he  not  only  assumed  his  own  share  of 


310  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

the  labour,  but  was  willing  to  accept  that  of  his 
companion,  and  Gordon  had  continually  to  restrain 
him. 

The  glitter  spread  transparently  over  the  road; 
the  horses  dug  their  hoofs  firmly  into  the  frozen 
ruts.  Suddenly  a  burst  of  sunlight  enveloped  the 
land,  and  the  land  responded  with  an  instant, 
intolerable  brilliancy,  a  blinding  sheet  of  white 
radiance.  Every  limb,  every  individual  twig  and 
blade  of  grass,  was  covered  with  a  sparkling,  trans- 
parent mail;  every  mound  of  brown  earth  scintillated 
in  a  crisp  surface  of  ice,  like  chocolate  confections 
glazed  in  clear  sugar.  The  clouds  dissolved;  the 
trees,  encased  in  crystal  pipes,  rose  dazzling  against 
a  pale,  luminous  blue  expanse.  Gigantic  swords  of 
incandescence  shifted  over  the  mountainside ;  shoals 
of  frosty  sparks  filled  the  hollows;  haloes  im- 
maculate and  uncompassionate  hung  above  the 
hills. 

Viewed  from  the  necessity  of  the  driver  of  the 
Stenton  stage,  this  phenomenon  was  highly  undesir- 
able,— the  glassy  road  enormously  increased  the 
labour  of  the  horses;  Gordon's  vigilance  might  not 
for  a  minute  be  relaxed.  The  blazing  sun  blurred 
his  vision,  the  cold  crept  insidiously  into  his  bones. 
The  stage  slowly  made  its  way  into  the  valleys,  over 
the  ranges;  and,  with  it,  the  sun  made  its  way  over 
valley  and  mountain  toward  the  west. 

At  last  the  stage  reached  the  foot  of  Buck 
Mountain;  beyond  lay  the  village,  the  end  of  day. 
The  horses  cautiously  began  the  ascent,  while 
Gordon,  watching  their  progress,  lent  them  the 
assistance  of  his  judgment  and  voice.  The  road 
looped  a  cleared  field  against  the  mountain;  on  the 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  311 

left  an  icy  slope  fell  away  in  a  glittering  tangle  of 
underbrush.  The  stage  turned,  and  the  opening 
dropped  upon  the  right.  . 

Gordon  heard  a  thick,  unintelligible  sound  from 
behind,  and,  looking  about,  saw  Buckley  Simmons 
clambering  out  over  the  wheel.  He  stopped  the 
horses,  but  Buckley  slipped,  fell  upon  the  road. 
However,  he  quickly  scrambled  erect  and  walked 
beside  the  stage,  over  the  incline.  His  head  was 
completely  hidden  by  the  woollen  scarf;  in  one  hand 
he  carried  a  heavy  switch.  The  road  swung  about 
once  more,  and,  at  the  turn,  the  fall  was  abrupt. 
Buckley  Simmons  stumbled  across  the  space  that 
separated  him  from  the  horses.  And  Gordon,  with 
an  exclamation  of  incredulous  surprise,  saw  the 
other's  arm  sweep  up.  The  switch  fell  viciously 
across  the  back  of  the  yellowish-white  horse. 

The  animal  plunged  back,  dragging  his  com- 
panion against  the  stage.  Gordon  rose,  lashing  out 
with  his  voice  and  whip;  the  horses  struggled  to 
regain  their  foothold  .  .  .  slipped.  ...  He  felt 
the  seat  dropping  away  behind  him.  Then,  with  a 
violent  wrench,  a  sliding  crash,  horses,  stage,  and 
man  lurched  down  the  incline. 


XXIII 

GORDON  MAKIMMON  rose  to  a  sitting  position  on 
the  glassy  fall.  Above  him,  to  the  right,  the  stage 
lay  collapsed,  its  wheels  broken  in.  Below,  the 
yellowish-white  horse,  upon  his  back,  drew  his  legs 
together,  kicked  out  convulsively,  and  then  rolled 
over,  lay  still.  From  the  round  belly  the  broken 
end  of  a  shaft  squarely  projected.  The  other  horse 
was  lost  in  a  thrashing  thicket  below. 

Gordon  exclaimed,  "  God  A 'mighty  !"  Then  the 
thought  flashed  through  his  mind  that,  extra- 
ordinarily, he  had  not  been  hurt — he  had  fallen 
away  from  the  plunging  hoofs,  his  heavy  winter 
clothes  had  preserved  him  from  serious  bruises. 
His  face  was  scratched,  his  teeth  ached  intolerably, 
but,  beyond  that  .  .  . 

He  rose  shakily  to  his  feet.  As  he  moved,  a  swift, 
numbing  pain  shot  from  his  right  side,  through  his 
shoulder  to  his  brain,  where,  apparently,  it  centred 
in  a  burning  core  of  suffering.  He  choked  un- 
expectedly on  a  warm,  thick,  salty  tide  welling  into 
his  throat.  He  said  aloud,  surprised,  "  Something's 
busted/' 

He  swayed,  but  preserved  himself  from  falling, 
and  spat.  Instantly  there  appeared  before  him  on 
the  shining  ice  a  blot  of  vivid,  living  scarlet. 

"  That's  bad,"  he  added  dully. 
312 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  313 

He  must  get  up  to  the  road,  out  of  this  damned 
mess.  The  stage,  he,  had  not  fallen  far;  the  road 
was  but  a  few  yards  above  him,  but  the  ascent,  with 
the  pain  licking  through  him  like  a  burning  tongue, 
the  unaccustomed,  disconcerting  choking  in  his 
throat,  was  incredibly  toilsome,  long. 

Buckley  Simmons  was  standing  on  the  road  with 
a  lowered,  vacant  countenance,  a  face  as  empty  of 
content,  of  the  trace  of  any  purpose,  as  a  washed 
slate. 

'  You  oughtn't  to  have  done  that,  Buck," 
Gordon  told  him  impotently;  "  you  ought  never  to 
have  done  a  thing  like  that.  Why,  just  see  .  .  ." 
Gordon  Makimmon's  voice  wras  tremulous,  his 
brain  blurred  from  shock.  '  You  went  and  killed 
that  off  horse,  and  a  man  never  hitched  a  better. 
There's  the  mail,  too;  however  it'll  get  to  Green- 
stream  on  contract  to-night  I  don't  know.  That 
was  the  hell  of  a  thing  to  go  and  do  !  ...  off 
horse  .  .  .  willing ; 

The  sky  flamed  in  a  transcendent  glory  of  aureate 
light;  the  molten  gold  poured  in  streams  over  the 
land,  dripped  from  the  still  branches.  The  crashing 
of  falling  limbs  sounded  everywhere. 

They  were,  Gordon  knew,  not  half  way  up  Buck 
Mountain.  There  were  no  dwellings  between  them 
and  Greenstream  village,  no  houses  immediately  at 
their  back.  The  road  wound  up  before  them  to- 
ward the  pure  splendour  of  sheer  space.  The  cold 
steadily  increased.  Gordon's  jaw  chattered,  and  he 
saw  that  Buckley's  face  was  pinched  and  blue. 

"  Got  to  move,"  Gordon  articulated;  "freeze  out 
here."  He  lifted  his  feet,  stamped  them  on  the  hard 
earth,  while  the  pain  leaped  and  flamed  in  his  side. 


314  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

He  laboured  up  the  ascent,  but  Buckley  Simmons 
remained  where  he  was  standing.  I'll  let  him  stay, 
Gordon  decided;  he  can  freeze  to  death  and  welcome, 
no  loss  .  .  .  after  a  thing  like  that.  He  moved 
forward  once  more,  but  once  more  stopped. 

"  C'm  on,"  he  called  impatiently;  "  you'll  take  no 
good  here."  He  retraced  his  steps  and  roughly 
grasped  the  other's  arm,  urging  him  forward. 
Buckley  Simmons  whimpered,  but  obeyed  the 
pressure. 

The  long,  toilsome  course  began,  a  trail  of 
frequent  scarlet  patches  marking  their  way. 
Buckley  lagged  behind,  shaking  with  exhaustion 
and  chill,  but  Gordon  commanded  him  on;  he 
pulled  him  over  deep  ruts,  cursed  him  into  renewed 
energy.  This  dangerously  delayed  their  progress. 

'  I  got  a  good  mind  to  leave  you,"  Gordon  told 
him;  "  something's  busted,  and  I  want  to  make  the 
village  soon's  I  can;  and  here  you  drag  and  hang 
back.  You  did  it  all,  too.  C'm  on,  you  dam* 
fool:  I  could  get  along  twice  as  smart  without  you." 

It  seemed  to  Gordon  Makimmon  that,  as  he 
walked,  the  hurt  within  him  was  consuming  flesh 
and  bone ;  it  was  eating  away  his  brain.  The  thick, 
salty  taste  persisted  in  his  mouth,  nauseating  him. 

The  light  faded  swiftly  to  a  mysterious  violet 
glimmer  in  the  sky,  on  the  ground  a  cold  phos- 
phorescence that  seemed  to  emanate  from  the  ice. 

Buckley  Simmons  could  scarcely  proceed;  he  fell, 
and  Gordon  drew  him  sharply  to  his  feet.  Finally 
Gordon  put  an  arm  about  his  shoulder,  steadying 
him,  forcing  him  on.  He  must  hurry,  he  realized, 
while  the  other  held  him  back,  delayed  the  assistance 
that  Gordon  so  desperately  needed. 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  315 

( I  tell  you,"  he  repeated  querulously,  "  I  got  to 
get  along;  something's  broke  inside.  Ill  leave 
you,"  he  threatened;  "  I'll  let  you  sit  right  here  and 
go  cold."  It  was  an  empty  threat;  he  struggled  on, 
giving  Buckley  his  support,  his  determination, 
sharing  the  ebbing  store  of  his  strength. 

As  they  neared  the  top  of  the  mountain  a  flood 
of  light  colder  than  the  ice  poured  from  behind. 
The  moon  had  risen,  transforming  the  world  into  a 
crystal  miracle.  .  .  .  Far  below  them  was  the 
Greenstream  valley,  the  village.  They  struggled 
forward,  an  uncouth  slipping  bulk,  under  the 
soaring  dead  planet.  Gleams  of  light  shot  like 
quicksilver  about  their  feet,  quivered  in  the  clear 
gloom  like  trails  of  pale  fire  igniting  lakes  of  argent 
flame.  It  was  magnificent  and  cruel,  a  superb 
fantasy  rippling  over  treacherous  rocks,  rock-like 
earth. 

'  Y'  dam'  idiot,"  Gordon  mumbled,  "  if  I  die  out 
here  where'll  y'  be  then  ?  I'd  like  to  know  that. 
.  .  .  Don't  sit  down  on  me  again;  I  don't  know's  I 
could  get  you  up,  don't  b'lieve  I  could.  Like  as  not 
we  won't  make  her.  That  was  an  awful  good  horse. 
I'm  under  contract  to — to  .  .  .  Government." 

Buckley  Simmons  sank  to  his  knees;  once  more 
Gordon  kicked  him  erect.  He  spat  and  spat,  con- 
stantly growing  weaker.  '  That's  an  awful  lot  of 
blood  for  a  man  to  lose,"  he  complained. 

Suddenly  he  saw  upon  the  right  the  lighted  square 
of  a  window. 

"  Why !"  he  exclaimed  weakly,  "  here's  the 
valley." 

He  pushed  Buckley  toward  the  door,  and  there 
was  an  answering  stir  within  .  .  .  voices. 


XXIV 

AN  overwhelming  desire  possessed  Gordon  Makim- 
mon  to  go  home.  He  forgot  the  pressing  necessity 
for  assistance,  the  searing  hurt  within  ...  he  must 
go  home.  He  stumbled  forward,  turning  into  an 
aside  that  led  directly  behind  Dr.  Pelliter's  drug 
store  to  the  road  above  the  Makimmon  dwelling. 
He  moved  blindly,  instinctively,  following  the  way 
bitten  beneath  his  consciousness  by  a  lifetime  of 
usage. 

The  house  was  dark,  but  it  was  hardly  darker 
than  Gordon's  brain.  He  climbed  the  steps  to  the 
porch;  his  hands  fumbled  among  the  keys  in  his 
pocket. 

Feet  tramped  across  the  creaking  boards,  ap- 
proaching him;  a  palm  fell  upon  his  shoulder; 
a  crisp  voice  rang  out  uncomprehended  at  his  ear. 
It  said : 

"  I'd  knocked  on  all  the  doors,  and  was  just 
going.  I  wanted  to  see  you  at  once 

Gordon  felt  over  the  door  in  search  of  the  place 
for  the  key. 

"  I  say  I  wanted  to  see  you,"  the  voice  persisted; 
"  it's  Edgar  Crandall.  You'll  take  pleasure  from 
what  I've  got  to  tell." 

The  key  slipped  into  its  place  and  the  bolt  shot 
back.  .  .  .  Well,  he  was  home.  No  other  thought, 

316 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD  317 

no  other  consciousness,  lingered  in  his  mind;  even 
the  pain,  the  unsupportable  white  core  of  suffering 
in  his  brain,  was  dulled.  He  placed  his  foot  upon 
the  threshold,  but  the  hand  upon  his  shoulder 
arrested  him: 

"  Greenstream's  going  to  have  a  bank,"  the  voice 
triumphantly  declared;  "  it's  settled — part  outside 
capital,  part  guaranteed  right  here.  Paper 
shaving,  robbery,  finished  .  .  .  lawful  rate  .  .  . 
chance " 

It  was  no  more  to  Gordon  Makimmon  than  the 
crackling  of  the  forest  branches,  no  more  than  an 
inexplicable  hindrance  to  a  desired  consummation. 

'  If  it  hadn't  been  for  you,  what  you  did  for  me 
.  .  .  others  .  .  .  new  courage,  example  of  bigness 
—why  !  what's  the  matter  with  you,  Makimmon  ? 
That's  blood." 

Gordon  made  a  tremendous  effort  of  will,  of  grim 
concentration.  He  freed  himself  from  the  detain- 
ing hand.  "Moment,"  he  pronounced.  The  single 
word  was  expelled  as  dryly,  as  lifelessly,  as  a  pro- 
jectile, from  a  throat  insensate  as  the  barrel  of  a 
gun.  He  vanished  into  the  bitterly  cold  house. 

The  bare  floors  echoed  to  his  plodding  footsteps 
as  he  entered  the  bedroom  beyond  the  dismantled 
chamber  of  the  safe.  A  flickering  desire  to  see  led 
him  to  where,  on  the  bureau,  a  lamp  had  been  left. 
The  chimney  fell  with  a  crash  of  splintering  glass 
upon  the  floor,  a  match  flared  in  his  stiff  fingers, 
and  the  unprotected  wick  burned  with  a  choking, 
spectral  blue  light. 

He  saw,  gazing  at  him  from  the  black  depths  of 
the  mirror  above  the  bureau,  a  haggard  face  drained 
of  all  life,  of  all  blood,  with  deep  inky  pools  upon 


318  MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 

the  eyes.  A  sudden  emotion  stirred  in  the  chill 
immobility  creeping  upward  through  him. 

"  Lettice  !"  he  cried  in  a  voice  as  flat  as  a  spent 
echo;  "  Lettice  !" 

He  stumbled  back,  sinking. 

Edgar  Crandall  found  him  kneeling  at  the  bed, 
his  arms  outflung  across  the  counterpane,  his  head 
bowed  between,  with  a  blackening  stain  beneath  his 
clay-cold  lips,  beneath  his  face  scarred  with  im- 
measurable suffering,  fixed  in  a  last  surprise. 


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